


six cliches that never were

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Bachelor Auction, Cabin Fic, Cliche, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Groundhog Day, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Older Man/Younger Woman, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Pollen, Skye and her Huge Crush on Coulson, Snowed In, Telepathy, Tropes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Zombie Apocalypse, character deaths warning because zombie apocalypse, grumpy Coulson, no I won't stop with the Dollhouse nods, oblivious fools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rocking some old-fashioned cliche tropes, Skye and A.C. style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to prove that even wise men can be wrong [/bachelor auction]

He's going to kill whoever came up with this idea in the first place. 

He has a – call it old fashioned intuition, that Pepper Potts is somehow to blame; this is the kind of PR madness she enjoys subjecting the likes of Coulson to. The way she smiled when Stark announced his ridiculous bid left no room for doubt. She was in on the plan. She's a co-conspirator. She will feel his wrath when the time comes. Coulson is a pretty forgiving man, he believes, but there are some things you just can't forgive.

He's not sure why he's doing this, anyway. Things like dignity they might be too old-world for some but they still matter to people like Coulson. He said yes as a joke, meant to throw off Maria Hill for assuming he lacked the sense of humor to do so (which indeed he lacked, but she didn't have to assume) and things had snowballed from then on. _It's good PR_ , Pepper insisted, like she knew something Coulson didn't and yes, they are trying to clean up their names and they are trying to build something new and it is good publicity, their names under the Stark-sponsored charity event.

Stark Industries had even paid for the dining room. It was all part of a bigger celebration; dancing, expertly made cocktails, rich people as possible backers for their prospective, no-longer-governmental security agency. And it was, after all, for charity.

And okay, perhaps Coulson is also doing this as a gesture of goodwill towards Stark, who hadn't taken it too well, finding out he had been lied to about Coulson's death – because of course in Tony Stark's life everything is ever about Tony Stark. But when he isn't too busy pretending to be a dick (like today) Tony is someone Coulson actually considers a friend. And he doesn't have many of those left.

Still. Perhaps he should have drawn the line at _Bachelor Auction_ as a gesture of goodwill.

Next time he'll think twice. 

Except there's not going to be a next time because he's going to kill whoever came up with this idea and he'll go to a maximum security prison and he'll never have to offer himself up for auction at a party like this one ever again.

It's supposed to be fun, or so they say. Fine: Skye, May and Simmons seem to be having fun (which is always a good thing and a thing Coulson enjoys seeing, because god knows they deserve it, after the year they've all just had), huddled together and whispering conspiratorially and looking at the men in their team with a mixture of pity and amusement. Fine, Tony Stark also seems to be having fun. And Pepper. And practically everyone who isn't Coulson (except for Blake, Blake is the one person he can safely declare looks even more miserable than him and Coulson kind of regrets having used blackmail to convince him to join this evening, but if he was going to be embarrassed beyond belief there was no way Blake wasn't suffering the same fate – and that's friendship, too).

This is a SHIELD employees only thing, the willing victims, that is, even though they are not called SHIELD anymore, not technically, and they cannot agree on what it should say on official documents, they've been trying some stuff, a couple of different temporary names, but Coulson very much doubts the _Organization Formerly Known As SHIELD We Need A Better Name Than That I Know Skye I Know Just Let Me Type Hey Maybe That Has A Cool Acronym I Mean It Skye Let Me Finish This Wow Aren't You Grumpy Today_ is going to cut it for long.

He wonders, were they still under Nick Fury's orders, if they'd be wasting their time in such silly pursuits. At least Fury would have probably made the Avengers take part, instead of this sad show of middle aged bureaucrats parading themselves to colleagues and journalists and the curious and rich. Stark had insisted that the auction was for " _a date, of course it has to be a date, a romantic date_ ", nothing less than that, and though almost everybody had been purchased by people from their own teams and units (in friendly support or in mockery Coulson does not know), this was not to be Coulson's fate.

Hence why he is definitely going to murder whoever came up with this idea in the first place.

"Do you realize you're the only Avenger who is attending this thing?" he asked Stark. "What does it say about you or your commitment to this job?"

For a moment Coulson wishes Natasha was here, she'd side with him for sure, and she'd threaten Stark until he stopped torturing Coulson. But Natasha is busy; the rest of the team are too busy with actual work to waste their time on a silly social occasion. And perhaps they suspect it'd be too humilliating to witness.

It had been Stark's idea to push Coulson's slot to the last one of the evening, like he was the main attraction or something. Fair, Coulson _is_ the highest ranking officer, but still. "What did I ever do to you?" he had asked and Tony had narrowed his eyes like saying _Oh, you know what you did, Phil_. The whole thing was so gruelling that Coulson even forgot to enjoy the embarrassment of his colleagues: Blake in particular has had the dubious honor of being the cheapest bachelor around, when his assistant bought him for seven dollars and no one in the room contested it. So much for giving to charity. Blake announced he was switching to the private sector afterwards. He's been making this threat since HYDRA was exposed.

And Fitz, poor Fitz, he looks horrified at the idea of a date with May, even a fake one. Coulson can't say he blames him.

"Also," Fitz is complaining, way beyond the point it can do him some good so he's mostly joking now, "why is it only us, the guys? Why don't you girls get auctioned too? That's sexist, that's what it is."

"Oh, Fitz, I think you should look that word up," Simmons tells him.

It's not like Coulson would want that either, having the women agents of his team on the auction as well, imagine that. He'd much rather have them doing the buying. Better than Tony Stark in any case.

Simmons is also backstage to pick up her purchase; and fine, Coulson was a bit annoyed at how high the price for Trip went, he's not the only handsome man in the organization; he also didn't like how people were cheering when Agent Shaw was up for grabs, because surely, Coulson thinks, he's just as good looking as Shaw, if less impressively built, and sure, Coulson has a healthy ego when it comes to his own attractiveness but that doesn't mean it's not the truth – he can't complain about his own price, not really, highest of the night, but that's only because Tony Stark thought it would be so funny to spend half a million on him, for further humilliation.

Simmons, on the other hand, spent her money wholeheartedly.

"It's for charity!" she protests when Coulson gives her a look. She huffs and puts her arm around Agent Triplett's arm.

It might be cynical of him but Coulson is glad Trip was reassigned to another team a couple of months ago. If he and Simmons can make it work that's just fine, but romances among teammates are always historically an awful idea.

"Have fun on your date, sir," Simmons tells him, like it's a real date. 

Imagine that.

Well, the only thing that could be even worse than going on a fake date with Tony Stark would be going on a real one. He's pretty sure the night will consist on him cleaning up Stark's workbench while he and Pepper watch and sip expensive champagne and critize his cleaning technique. That's how Coulson imagines this will go down.

It's not even that he has to go on a date with a man – of course that's not the problem here, Coulson is not that guy. The problem is Tony Stark. If Captain Rogers had suddenly appeared in the auction site and bought a date with Coulson that would have been not just the realization of one of Coulson's adolescent fantasies but also totally fine. But no, the perspective of going out with Stark, knowing that Stark is set on making this as humilliating as he can for Coulson (he's not being paranoid, Tony said so before the party started), is a new kind of hell.

Coulson knows he swore to protect Earth but some days this job is just too hard.

"Happy winners, please that way."

He guesses he'll have to face the music eventually so he walks up to where Iron Man is discussing something with the auction clerk, and he has a curious look on his face – one the mighty Tony Stark doesn't usually wear, something between bafflement and impotence.

"What do you mean my credit cards have been cancelled? What do you mean _all of them_?" he's asking in a high-pitched voice.

"What is taking so long?" Coulson asks. Because if he has to go on this damn date he'd rather get it over with sooner than later.

"There seems to be a problem regarding Mr Stark's funds," the poor employee is explaining.

"How can there be a problem with my funds? _I'm Tony Stark_. Come on, you know me. You know this is a joke and one in bad taste."

"I'm sorry to have to do this," the girl says and takes scissors to Stark's credit cards and cuts them in half with a sharp snapping noise.

Coulson thinks this might be the funniest thing he's ever seen.

"Wow, you actually did that, people do that in real life, uh," Tony stares. "Okay, okay, be like that. Pepper! Nevermind, Pepper has credit cards, we can do this."

"I'm sorry but only the bidder is allowed to pay for a succesful auction," the girl informs him.

"This is a joke. Is this a joke? Coulson, is this your idea of a joke?"

Coulson shrugs. He has absolutely no idea what is going on. He knows he likes it, though.

"I'm sorry Mr Stark but in case the winning bidder is incapable of payment –"

"I'm not incapable in any way! Specially when it comes to money. I can give you my Rolex, here, take this."

"Credit card only."

Coulson feels like they are getting off track because he swears he could hear the sweet bells of freedom ringing somewhere just a moment ago.

"You were saying," he interrupts, "in case the winning bidder can't pay..."

The girl nods: "The auction goes to the second highest bid."

Oh, so maybe not so much with the freedom. Coulson can't remember who else went up against Stark but anyway it can't be anyone worse so he is somehow saved. Right?

Stark snorts.

"What?" Coulson asks him.

"I see what's happening here – I must be getting dense in my old age," Stark says in the general direction of the clerk. "Let's play a game, shall we, auction lady. Is the second highest bidder on this particular fine, _fine_ item in your collection... is the name of that person – no, wait, I know that's personal information and you can't say. But does the name of this _mysterious_ benefactor start with an S and end with a E?"

"You're just a sore loser, Stark," a voice says behind him and indeed a moment later Skye appears, Coulson's dubious savior, looking rather pleased with herself, from behind the backstage curtain.

Freedom it is then, but... at what cost?

This poses a new set of problems, Coulson thinks. One he would rather not have to face, _ever_ if possible, and particularly not because of something as stupid as this party. He doesn't really want to go on a fake date with Skye. Which is not saying he doesn't appreciate the gesture.

"I want all my accounts unfrozen by tomorrow morning," he tells Skye.

"But you are a total genius, Mr Stark," she says innocently, "I'm sure you can figure out how to break my code way before that."

Stark groans. He and Skye have only met on a couple of occassions and those had not went well at all. Well, Coulson reasons, Tony Stark is not one for first impressions. Or second. And Skye is... complicated, with a side of unpredictable.

"Here," Skye presents her humble debit card to the clerk. "This one should be good. It's the only one I have."

(Coulson knows this is not true; Skye has a second, emergencies-only credit card not even SHIELD ever knew about)

Stark sneers at her.

"It went through. Very well," the clerk says. "Mr Coulson is all yours. Just let me go get the paperwork."

"You heard the nice woman, sir. You're _all mine_ ," Skye says cheerfully (a little too cheerfully but he might be imagining things) and Coulson wonders if it's too late to ask for a date with Tony Stark instead. There are a million ways in which this evening could turn out a disaster for the team. Cleaning Stark's garage should be a lot safer.

"Enjoy your date, Coulson," Tony says as he leaves. "I have the sneaky suspicion you will."

But then before he disappears outside the door he turns to Coulson, the mask of annoyance slipped, and gives him a soft, unusual smile and Coulson remembers that, when he is not busy being a dick, Tony is actually one of his closest friends.

Skye watches him leave, too, a delighted expression on her face. It's not everyday a girl gets to have the upper hand against Iron Man.

"You froze all of Tony Stark's accounts?" Coulson says, appreciative as well as impressed. "I didn't know anyone could even do that."

"Please, Coulson, don't underestimate me. Stark might have an AI and a couple of Lamborghinis but I have a five-year old laptop I won by drinking more tequila than some guy whose name I don't remember."

"Why would you do that?" Coulson asks her.

"Drink tequila?"

"Save me from Stark."

"Hey, didn't you see me? I was bidding honestly out there, and I wasn't going to let Iron Man and all his millions steal my date."

"Skye."

There's a beat.

"Because you looked so miserable," she says, simply.

And okay, in the grand scheme of death and lies and betrayal of their lives, perhaps feeling lousy because Tony Stark is going to psychologically torture you for an evening might not be a big thing, but it's kind of touching that Skye saw him suffering and quickly put her wits to the job, to help him out. It's touching because it's so small, because Skye did it without even thinking.

"Thank you. No, seriously. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," she says, looking away. When she glances at Coulson again her usual playful (and not completely honest) expression is back in place. "But hey, three hundred dollars is all my savings, all the money I have in the whole world. So you'd better show me a good time."

The clerk is giving her a receipt. Like Skye might want a tax deduction for this. Coulson is pretty sure Skye hasn't done taxes in her life, wouldn't know where to start. He suddenly worries, thinking he might have to give her some pointers, but it's Skye, she'd probably research it and learn everything there is to learn about taxes in an hour, whenever she happens to need it. That's unnatural, he thinks – but then again Coulson learned how to do taxes from his mother.

Why is he thinking about all this? Oh, right, so he can avoid thinking about the pressing problem at hand.

She turns to him while she is signing the "Congratulations! You Won A Fake Date With Your Boss For Charity!" papers. She looks happy. Maybe this is not an entirely horrible evening. Or maybe it's more, much more horrible than he anticipated.

So this is happening, he ponders. Now they are going to leave the place together and have a date. Even a fake one. He never thought about doing that with Skye. Not even in a fake way. There are so many reasons for this and lacking the inclination is definitely not one.

"Did you have something in mind?" Coulson asks her, sounding almost shy, even to himself. He won't admit it but he's curious; if Skye ever thought about a date for them (which she won't, which she shouldn't, anyway) what would she think about.

"I know this place, they make great hot dogs. Well, it's not a place, it's more of a truck, but it's great, and it's a nice night so we can sit outside and – sorry, I'm really not very good at planning dates. Er, even fake ones."

No, Coulson thinks, that actually sounds like a very nice date. Or maybe it's just that it's Skye. He's definitely in trouble now, this whole bachelor auction business giving him ideas he shouldn't be contemplating in the first place.

She goes to pick up their things.

He watches her leave, thinking _bad, this is bad_.

He rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, feeling simultaneously old and not old enough for whatever is happening here. Plus he's not going to let Tony Stark mess with his head like this.

"Romances among teammates are historically an awful idea," he repeats under his breath like a mantra.

"What's an awful idea?" Skye asks, appearing out of nowhere with their coats.

He shakes his head. "Ready to go?"

"So ready."

She looks excited.

"You look excited," he comments. He swears she is blushing a bit.

"I am. I mean, I'm not an idiot, I know it's just a fake date," she says, biting the inside of her mouth, like she wishes it wasn't. "But I still want my money's worth."

"What if it wasn't?" he asks, suddenly bolder than he's been in his whole life or at least that's how it feels, for a moment. Willing to risk his whole relationship with Skye. Yeah, he's going to kill whoever came up with this bachelor auction idea in the first place.

"What?"

"What if it wasn't fake? The date."

That makes her pause. Bad move, Coulson thinks. He tries to rack his brain for a way to backtrack here, to save what he can.

But then Skye smiles warmly at it, the idea, and him. "Then it'd _definitely_ be the best three hundred dollars I've spent in my whole life."

Her smile is just – Coulson doesn't really know what to do with that smile.

Skye puts her arm around his.

Coulson nods, leading her out of the door.

Thinking: bless whoever came up with this bachelor auction idea in the first place.


	2. endless nine [/groundhog day]

He wakes up. June 9th. The world is a curious blue through the plane windows and he wonders where exactly they are flying through.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Skye says when he walks into the kitchen area while she and Simmons are having breakfast; Coulson contemplates giving her a talking to, _sleepyhead_ is not something respectful to call your boss. "You don't normally wake up so late."

He has the feeling something is wrong but Skye's smile is so pleasant he quickly forgets.

 

+

 

He wakes up. June 9th. The world is a curious blue through the plane windows. He wonders where they are.

Coulson wakes up with a strange feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

"Hey, sleepyhead. You don't normally wake up so late."

That's not a very professional word, he thinks, but then forgets.

He has a feeling something is wrong and Skye's smile sends shivers down his spine.

 

+

 

June 9th.

He wakes up.

He realizes.

He doesn't forget this time.

 

+

 

"I believe you," she says.

Coulson was not expecting that.

He has been doing this for a while now, and this has never happened before.

The first time he tried to explain the situation Fitz said it was impossible, nothing in the known _or unknown_ universe could create such an event. 

The second time Simmons insisted on a full physical.

When May didn't believe him either (and went into a quiet panic thinking whatever T.A.H.I.T.I. had done to Coulson was malfunctioning) he stopped trying to convince the team. Obviously the solution lies somewhere else. This was not the path he wanted to walk.

But then, today – 

"I believe you," Skye says. "Tell me everything. From the start."

 

+

 

There's always, almost always, some sort of catatrophe he needs to avoid.

It's not always the same – if it were the same, it'd be easier.

He calculates the probablitities, anyway: lab accident is a common recurrence. And so is a HYDRA attack on the plane.

He has tried everything. He has suspended their current mission and told May to turn the plane around, but whoever happens to be after them finds it anyway, or there's a malfunction or there's another horrible possibility he hadn't contemplated. He has tried declaring they were on holiday and could pick any destination. He even tried giving everybody the night off in a hotel but the hotel then was attacked by terrorists, holding Simmons hostage. That day didn't end well. That day will stay with him forever. He's afraid to do it over again.

He has also tried walking away from the team, leaving alone, but something always stops him.

Then there are the days where nothing horrible happens, or no one dies. Those are almost worse because after a catastrophe June 9th always comes as a balm, as a relief. It wasn't true, none of it, he could pretend it was just a bad dream. When nothing bad happens and he wakes up the next day in exactly the same time and place Coulson feels something close to despair. This is not a feeling he's used to, one he's equipped to deal with.

He has no idea what he is supposed to do.

 

+

 

She always believes him.

No matter how many times, no matter how crazy it sounds. How crazy _he_ sounds. Skye always believes him.

Sometimes he even tells her out of curiosity, some sort of cruel test, to check if she will believe him this time, to find out if maybe one day she slips, or stops. Not knowing what he's trying to prove with all this.

Once he calculates how many minutes he has spent explaining the situation to her.

How many times they've had this exact conversation.

Once she asks him: "You've done this before. Right? Telling me. How many times–?"

Coulson shakes his head. Skye gives him a profoundly sad and hurt look, suddenly seeming as old as he feels.

He's been reliving this day for over a month now. And she always believes him and they always spend the rest of the day trying to figure it out, how to stop it from happening again.

And it's always useless.

And it is always, always just as useless one day as the next.

 

+

 

He's seen most of the team die at least once.

This is the first time he sees her die. This is a possibility he must have calculated at some point, but one he didn't want to know he was preparing for. He realizes he's not prepared at all.

"Who knows?" she says, holding her hand to her stomach, smiling despite the pain. "Maybe this is what has to happen."

"No, it can't be this."

"You said you tried everything else."

He touches his fingers to her bloodied hand. Warm, but getting colder by the moment.

"But it can't be it," he says, pleading in a small, quiet voice. "I won't let it."

Her eyes narrow slowly.

He tries calling her name but the sound never makes it out of his mouth. He wants to tell her to stay here with him.

Coulson watches her die. Can't do anything about it. He watches Skye die and it doesn't feel real but it feels real enough that it cuts through him, a sharp ache echoing through places in his body he didn't know could feel pain.

He goes to bed that night with her blood still staining his hands.

 

+

 

He wakes up, sees the world in a curious blue and scrambles around for his watch.

June 9th.

Coulson has never been more relieved in his life.

He rushes to the kitchen.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

He feels like crying, or hugging her, but he does neither.

 

+

 

He decides this is putting her in danger.

He was doing this alone at first, he can go back to do this alone.

Figure it out, come up with new options, a different choice. He doesn't have to get her involved. Or any of the others (they wouldn't believe him, anyway; and he almost feels comforted by that fact). He's in hell but she doesn't have to be, not for him she doesn't.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Skye asks, when they are alone in the lab and Coulson's body twitches with the anticipation of something horrible coming for them all, he's been waiting since he woke up.

He nods.

"What's wrong?" Skye asks.

He shrugs, like he has no idea what she's talking about, but not trusting his voice with her.

"You've been acting strange all day," she tells him. "You've had this weight-of-the-world-on-your-shoulders kind of face the whole time. And I... well, I am worried about you."

She's worried about him.

Coulson tries _not telling her_ once, tries not pushing the burden of this on her as well. He tries that, but just the once.

 

+

 

Coulson wakes up. It's June 9th.

Hours later: "I believe you."

 

+

 

"Fix this," she tells him.

They've just watched the rest of the team get hit by a HYDRA-developed chemical attack.

"I don't know how," Coulson admits.

"There has to be a reason why you remember and the rest of us don't," she says, tracks of dried tears smearing her cheeks. "It has to be you."

 

+

 

He gives up once. 

It surprises him it took this long.

(he doesn't really know _how long_ this is, not anymore)

He buries his face in his hands, maybe laughing softly, maybe sobbing, because this is impossible and he knows he is stuck forever and nothing he could do, nothing his team could ever do, is going to change this fact.

Skye sits on the bed by his side.

"I can't do it again," he says, hands over his closed eyes.

"Yes, you can."

She grabs his hand, pulls it away from his face. She makes him open his eyes and face the world.

"Skye, I can't. Don't ask me to."

"You'll keep doing it." He swears she looks _stern_. She's not letting him off the hook.

"Why?"

"Because you are not alone," she tells him, her voice gentler now. "I might not remember all these other times you've had to fight this but I was there with you, there's some part of the me now that's been all those Skyes, too. So if you wake up in the same place tomorrow go find me, and talk to me, and we'll fight again. Because I know the me from tomorrow, and she loves you just as much as the me from today does."

He doesn't understand. 

Skye looks at him shyly.

She kisses him.

This hasn't happened before. (It might not happen again)

"Promise me you won't give up," she says.

Coulson nods, letting himself be kissed again. Kissing her back this time. He didn't know. All this time spent with her, with the various version of her. He hadn't noticed. The way her hands press gently against his chest. He had no idea. 

He lets her undress and kiss him down to skin and scars and bones.

"Don't close your eyes," Skye tells him, wanting him to see her as she undresses too.

Wanting him.

Coulson had no idea.

He presses his face against her stomach.

He memorizes every inch of her skin, every imperfection, mole and little childhood scar, and the new scars he's complicit in. He commits her to memory in case tomorrow comes and erases this – so he can at least know, no matter what happens, that this was real. Skye sighs under his careful touch. Those noises, he commits to memory too, wondering if he'll ever get to hear them again.

Afterwards she keeps him close to her on his bed, like she's afraid to let go, and Coulson understands that, understands that so well.

"I don't want to fall asleep," he tells her, head resting on Skye's bare shoulder. "Wake up and discover all this gone. I don't want to start again."

I want to stay here with you, he thinks. I always want to stay with you.

Skye runs her hands through his hair.

"You don't have to start again. Now you know," she says, kissing him. "You're not alone. You're never alone."

He doesn't want to fall asleep.

 

+

 

He wakes up.

June 9th.

He's never been more disappointed.

All day, whenever he sees Skye, his fingers itch to touch her again and he has to remind himself – it didn't happen, it never happened, it might never happen again.

 

+

 

"I believe you."

"Okay, okay," he says, drawing a long breath. He promised. He promised the other Skye. "Okay, let's fight this again."

 

+

 

Maybe he is just crazy. That could be an explanation. A good explanation. If he is crazy no one has to die. No one has to die over and over because he cannot find the exit.

"I don't think you are crazy," Skye says. "But you need some proof. Think about something, something to anchor you maybe, anything, it doesn't matter how small it is, that could convince you that you have indeed repeated this day many times."

"I know some things I shouldn't know."

"Like what?"

"You have a small mole on your left hip."

She raises her eyebrows in shock.

"How could you know that from repeating this day over and over?"

 _Because you showed it to me_ , he thinks. _Because I kissed it_.

"Because you told me," he lies, thinking about all the things he knows and shouldn't, thinking he could tell Skye he knows the face she makes when she comes and how suprisingly tender she is when she has him in her arms. "You told me that so I could convice next-day-you that I was not crazy."

Skye frowns. He wonders if she believes him.

"Oh, that's kind of disappointing," she says. "I thought you were going to say something amazing, like how we slept together in one of those iterations."

He wonders if the other Skye was telling the truth – about every Skye loving him.

 

+

 

"Maybe this is it," he says, holding his hand to his stomach, feeling a metallic, not-unfamiliar taste in his mouth. "Maybe this is what will break the cycle."

"This is not it," Skye says.

"How do you know? It would make sense." Nothing else has made this much sense so far.

"I just know, okay?"

Skye touches her fingertips to the back of his hand. Her skin is warm. Or maybe it's just that his is getting colder by the second.

"How could you know?"

"Because I won't let it happen," she says, convincing enough that Coulson almost believes her.

He looks at her. If this is the last time this happens, he thinks, it's not a bad way to go, holding on to her. He has spent such a long time with Skye since this started happening. He can't complain about that. He regrets not doing more about it, though.

He regrets many things.

He _regrets_.

She presses her hands against his wound.

"I don't want to die," he tells her.

And it hits him like a truck: it's true. He doesn't want to die. He didn't mind, once upon a time. He died once, even, because he couldn't be bothered to hang on to life tightly enough, because he didn't see the point. He preferred a heroic death to an empty life. But his life is not empty.

He doesn't want to die.

He wants to stay here.

With her.

 _Coulson, Coulson, no_ he hears her cry, but it sounds so far away. He wonders if he can reach that sound. If he can come back.

 

+

 

He wakes up and the world is a curious shade of blue against the plane windows.

And then he hears it, the soft buzzing of machines. The beeping monitoring something – monitoring him. He realizes. He's not in the plane. Just a blue room. A blue _hospital_ room. Then he feels fingertips dart across his forehead, brushing hair off his skin. Coulson turns towards that touch, those fingers, that warmth.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Skye says, voice choking and brave.

"Skye."

He tries to look around, but his whole body aches with the effort. He's disoriented, has been waking up in the same place for too long. He doesn't understand what is going on.

He doesn't understand why Skye is looking at him with the tiniest smile on her mouth.

"It's the tenth of June," she tells him. "So... you did it, right? It's fixed. You won't have to repeat the day again."

Coulson looks at her; he can't quite believe she's real.

"You still believe me?"

She snorts. "Of course I still believe you."

Her hand hasn't stopped caressing his face. Coulson catches her fingers in his. He knows this is not the Skye who slept with him. The Skye who said she loved him. And that's okay. This is the Skye he fell in love with, long before this whole nightmare started.

He tries to sit up. Remembers his wounds a bit too late.

"Keep still," Skye tells him, some sort of incipient joy and relief warming her voice. "Doctor's' orders. Be patient, you have some recovery to do. It might take a while."

It's okay, Coulson thinks. He has all the time in the world. And he knows he should make it count.

"It's okay," he tells her. "We have all the time in the world."

" _We_?" Skye repeats, smirking like the word tastes really good in her mouth. Then, softly: "Yeah, I'd like that."

This time maybe he gets to stay here with her. He'd like that.


	3. attached [/telepathy]

If he survives this (and he's starting to wish he won't) Coulson is going to stay away from science from now on.

He might even have, to ensure no one else has to suffer this fate, to kill Bruce Banner, whose research gave the idea for the experiement in the first place. The rest was just Fitz, being so damn curious and scientific-like.

When has science ever done anything for them?

Or when has luck? Because that's the other thing, it was just plain bad luck. Not the accident, no. The other thing.

Of all the people he had to have this particular accident with... Anyone but Skye, please, he pleads, anyone but Skye. It's already too late, but he pleads.

"Why not me?" she asks.

Right. Mind-reading. Mutual mind-reading. Stop thinking, he thinks. Stop thinking, you were trained by SHIELD, you can do this.

Skye looks particularly unfazed by the whole thing, but then again _it's Skye_. Telepathy must be low in the list of things that could make this woman uncomfortable.

"Feel free to roam around my mind, you know I don't have secrets for you," she tells him, playfully.

Is everything a joke to her? Coulson lets out a frustrated sound, avoids thinking what he'd really be thinking if he were free to do so.

"I don't think it'd be healthy for us, to know everything the other is thinking," he says instead. His thoughts curls around the word _boss_ and _relationship_ and _important_ and he hopes Skye's guess at the last one falls off the mark.

"That's not the point," she says, and he can hear her thoughts aligning with her actual words. "I know that. But I'm not as scared as I could be, because at least it's you, not someone else. Maybe it's just that I trust you with whatever I happen to be thinking of. I know you won't judge me or freak out or think I'm weird or bad or whatever. I guess you don't trust me in the same way."

_I get it, I know I'm not the most trustworthy person in the world_ and even her thoughts try to make it light.

I trust you. But my thoughts shouldn't be trusted. (I trust you, with anything but this – but hopefully it's too much of an only half formed thing for Skye to hear this last bit clearly)

"Don't get dramatic, sir. I'm sure it'll be fine. At least we're not in danger."

Yes, we are.

And no, it won't be fine, he thinks, almost careless of whether she hears it or not. Because it won't. But it's not like they can do anything about it. It's happening and until Fitz sorts it out they'll just have to endure it.

They've tried putting some distance between them but apparently the plane is not big enough to nullify the effects of the experiment and they decided they should stick together, because hearing each other's thoughts while they are in separate rooms feels a lot creepier than just reading each other's thoughts, period. Coulson is not entirely sure that was the right decision, though, now that he reflects on it, because if they were in separate rooms at least he wouldn't have to look at her face.

"What is wrong with my face?" she asks, all offended.

"Skye, if we are to survive this, I think we should try our best not to –"

"But that's it, we can't _not_. I hear your thoughts just as clear and loud as if they were mine."

She's right. Coulson can't just hear Skye's inner voice in his head, he _feels_ her thoughts like an itch between his brain cells. Like now: _Why doesn't he like my face?_ and the thought is heavy with a taste of sadness and Coulson wants to – but he can't go down that road, he can't think about that, not if they are to have a fighting chance. Those eyes, something rough and raw there, mostly hurt and he wants – 

As long as he doesn't think about that, Coulson decides. They should be safe.

"As long as you don't think about what?"

Jesus fucking christ he can't do anything right. Can he? Skye is going to hate him forever.

"Why am I going to hate you?"

_I could never hate you_ and she is not helping at all. But he should have guessed she wouldn't. That's kind of the problem he's been having for months. He didn't think a freak gamma rays accident was the thing that would make it explode in his face.

As long as he doesn't think about that.

As long as the inconvenient thought doesn't randomly pop into his head like it usually does.

The thought, the thought, the usual everyday thought that will ruin everything if Skye ever gets to hear it. He's fighting it right now. He is fighting.

But – 

Skye's eyes go very wide.

Oh, well, that took like forty minutes of telepathy. Coulson is, above everything else (because he doesn't want to think about everything else, and he doesn't want to _ever think_ ), quite appalled at himself.

And Skye is still gaping at him.

"Oh my god. You do?"

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_.

"Don't swear, Coulson, it's so unbecoming of a man your age." She laughs nervously.

He stares at her.

Suddenly Skye looks alarmed.

"No, I don't," she tells him. "Of course I don't think you're old and gross."

"I hate you," Coulson mutters.

"Well, well, sir. Your thoughts seem to indicate quite the opposite."

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he thinks, hoping the honesty of it can reach her and not just the sound.

"Don't –"

"I'm sorry, Skye," he says, because at least he can do that face to face and not brain to brain.

I'm sorry, Skye. You've done absolutely nothing wrong. It's all on me.

"You need to calm down," she tells him. "My brain hurts."

"Sorry."

Sorry sorry sorry. I never meant to hurt you. This is not what I wanted – at all.

"You have to believe me," he says. "I never meant –"

His thoughts are a jumble of apologies and self-recrimination, he hopes it somehow makes it through and reaches her. He needs to explain. He's not a bad person.

"Of course not, what the hell are you talking about?"

He tried not to, she _has_ to believe him. He didn't plan anything. He's not planning anything. She would have never discovered anything if it weren't for that damned experiment. He was going to make sure it'd never ever interfere. He was going to make sure he could never hurt her.

"Hurt me? Why would you hurt me?"

Because how could I not.

Because you're – 

And I am – 

And I am so sorry, Skye.

"Coulson, stop freaking out, okay? Listen to me. Remember you can also read my mind."

"So what?"

"So _read my mind_."

He does. 

_He does_.

That can't possibly be.

"That can't possibly be."

"Why not?"

Because.

"You did. You do."

But – 

"You really think that? That you're not – But, I could say the same about me."

She thinks that. She really thinks that.

"Skye, please stop it."

"I know I'm not!"

She wasn't. He didn't think he'd ever think about someone like Skye in this way. But he does. God, he does. He's doing it now. _Fuck_.

"Wow. That's pretty specific, sir," she says.

_No_.

He can't even tell if she is completely disgusted by it.

Skye smiles at him. "I have those, too, you know."

"You don't. You can't."

"Why do you say that?"

Because how could you want me.

She frowns.

The next thing that comes, uninvited, into his mind is not exactly a coherently formed sentence but rather a series of flashes and quite graphic images Skye is sending out.

"Fucking hell, Skye," he lets out in a hitched breath. That was quite elaborated, like Skye has been thinking about this for a long time.

"I have."

"But don't do _that_ ," Coulson says. Not while he is no position to do anything about it, only in a position to further embarrass himself.

"I'm sorry," she says, not looking sorry at all. "I'm just being honest. But about the other thing... When Fitz figures out how to fix our brains... I'm going to spend a long time telling you again. With words. And my mouth. And less clothes. Over and over and over."

He thinks he thinks he thinks.

"Yeah," Skye beams at him. "I know."

Skye thinks she thinks she thinks.

"I didn't know," Coulson says.

"Well, then now you do."

He does.

And not just because he's hearing it now, repeated over and over, inside his head.


	4. that distraction inside of me [/sex pollen]

There are areas in which Skye excels more than anyone she knows. Being able to concentrate in any circumstance is one of those.

Normally, she means. Under any _normal_ circumstance.

But concentrating while her body is being attacked by a drug heavy on the pheromone side (actually _no_ , Fitz told her vehemently, and could she stop saying such absurd things please, the poison has nothing to do with that, it's all about norepinephrine, and serotonin and dopamine; but mainly norepinephrine and Skye narrowed her eyes at Fitz because the guy doesn't seem to understand that Skye last set foot on a classroom, science or otherwise, when she was fifteen) and concentrating _while_ she's trapped in a lab with Coulson? That's beyond even her capacity.

Not going to happen.

They are probably going to die here.

Because she has a crush on her (not-really-)boss. They are going to die here because she has a crush.

This is way too embarrassing. It's so embarrassing Skye cannot even process the simple facts of it. Because one thing is to get sex pollinated (shut up, she tells the Fitz inside her mind, she knows it's not sex pollen, her education does stretch that far) because life in SHIELD is that much fun even long after SHIELD has stopped existing. And okay, she could have dealt with that. But getting sex pollinated and trapped in a lab with the object of your inconvenient and forever unrequited crush that's just the universe being a dick to Skye.

She tries to concentrate on the task at hand – or they _will_ die, Fitz said this drug is actually more of a poison, and they have about half an hour before it's too late, and they have to get out of this freaking locked lab and into the next one to get the antidote.

Half an hour should be plenty to get past the firewall and release the doors from the central system. But Skye can't concentrate, not with Coulson anywhere near, and specially not with Coulson right beside her watching as she types at her laptop, sitting too close. Well, anywhere would be _too close_ right now (it always has been, actually, drug or not, but the last thing Skye needs to be thinking of now is _feelings_ ). Yes, they are probably going to die here, she decides.

"Whoever set up the security in this lab is good," Skye says, trying some exploits she knows by heart. Trying to sound like she is concentrating on her actual job and not on listening to Coulson breathe next to her, which is what she is doing actually.

"Better than you?" he asks.

"Don't insult me. But I'm incapacitated."

She presses her thighs together. Not chasing the sensation of arousal but willing it away, the drug quickly eating at her willpower.

She makes the mistake of shifting in her chair and her shoulder touches Coulson's for a moment. She is wearing a short-sleeved blouse and the contact of her skin against the fabric of his suit (Coulson and his ridiculous suits and the way he wears them, could he be any more unfair right now) makes desire hit her like a truck. She knows it's the drug, but not entirely, and that makes her feel too guilty for words, like she is taking advantage of him somehow. As far as Coulson is concerned this is just the drug and she knows – she knows – he will do everything to make her comfortable with the situation, to support her and soften the trauma for both of them as much as he can. Meanwhile Skye is just lying to him.

"I'm not getting anywhere with this encryption. I need to walk around for a moment," she says, standing up.

"Good idea," Coulson says in a funny voice, copying her movement and standing up himself.

Skye starts pacing around the lab, pretending Coulson is not there.

Perhaps she can do this if she keeps to _thinking_ stupid things instead of doing stupid things. 

That doesn't work, because this is the first stupid thing she does: she walks back to where Coulson is and in a moment she's behind him and she leans into him and draws a long breath, drinking in the smell of his neck.

"Did you just –?"

"What?" she says, innocently, dizzy with the smell, acrid from sweat and with a hint of the soap he normally uses.

"Skye, did you just smell my neck?" he asks, like it's not fucking evident that's exactly what she did.

"I'm sorry, it's the –"

"The drug, I know," he says, all calm and understanding, which of course makes everything a thousand times worse. Coulson needs to start acting less Coulson-like if they are ever going to get out of here.

"You don't seem to be as affected," she points out. She prefers it. She doesn't know what she would do if he started acting like he is attracted to her when Skye knows it would be just the drug because he would never – as much as she wants to see him look at her with lust in his eyes it would just break her heart.

"I am, but it works slower on me, given my weight and built and my training," Coulson explains. "When I started in SHIELD they were making us take things like sodium pentothal regularly so they wouldn't have an effect on us, were we ever caught by the enemy."

"That sounds like a lot of fun."

He smirks, but it's kind of in the cruel irony spectrum. "Yeah."

Except it doesn't matter the kind of smirk this is, Coulson smirking is more than she can handle right now; she drops her head and lets out a long growl of frustration. The drug is messing with her head. She was already attracted to Coulson before this happened – the drug seems to be sharpening that feeling exponentially. The million things she already found unbearably sexy about the man have suddenly become painfully affecting. Like the smirk. Or you know, the smell of him. Or you know, his voice. Or you know, everything.

She draws a long breath, like that could settle her. It can't. "Okay, okay, I'll just be in this corner, thinking how I can make us _not die_."

"Good idea," he says, again, in a really weird voice.

She goes to the other side of the room, pressing her back against a locked door. The metal feels good through her clothes, cold. She wonders how it would feel to have Coulson's hands draw a line along her spine and down to – _No, Skye, no. Chill, you can do this. It's just Coulson_. Well, that's the problem. That's exactly the heart and soul of the problem. Mainly the heart.

When she stops fantasizing about his hands Skye looks up and realizes Coulson is standing right in front of her.

"Why are you so close?"

He lets out a frustrated noise as his only answer.

"Oh, the drug is beginning to work on you," she says.

"Kind of." He shrugs.

Skye starts laughing softly. She can't catch a break with him and suddenly (she wonders how long until the poison shuts down her mental capacities for real) it seems so overwhelmingly hilarious to her.

"You find this funny," Coulson comments, frowning. _Cute frown, boss_ she thinks because of course she does. She so blames the toxic thing in her veins. She's a liar, she's lying to him, she's lying to the one person in the world who trusts her unconditionally. And she is doing _this_ to him.

"No, I find this disturbing and terrifying," she replies, annoyed.

"Then why is your face like that?"

"I don't know what my face is doing, it's probably saying I'm horny, but that's this freaking poison, not me."

Well, it's mainly the drug, she thinks. But this is not the best moment to bring the other stuff up. It's never the best moment, of course, and Skye is kind of glad they are going to die definitely for sure because that way she gets to take the secret of her ridiculous feelings for Coulson to the grave.

He takes a step towards her. They are not touching and it's not that he is pinning her against the door but the effect on her is the same. She can feel his body heat.

"Again... why are you so close?"

"Because..." he gestures between them.

"Are you totally incapacitated like me now?"

"Yeah."

"We are screwed."

"Don't... just... _that word_..."

Coulson leans over and brushes his lips across the curve of her neck. It feels like Skye was in front of a fire and the sweet, liquid warmth was licking at her skin. He stops, recoiling.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Skye," he says, shame disorting his face into a grimace. And well, he really shouldn't swear in front of her right now. Thinking of it, this is probably the first time she has heard him swear like that and yeah, that thought is not helping with the problem of heat pooling at the bottom of her stomach and lower.

Skye turns around, resting her arm on the steel door, and pressing her cheek into the crook of her elbow, in despair.

"We are going to die," she says, and she almost doesn't mind because Coulson has dropped his head and is now pressing his face against Skye's shoulderblade, he is groaning into the fabric of her denim shirt.

"Yes we are," Coulson agrees.

"I just need a moment of clarity, just one moment in which I'm not – argh, I could, you know, I could save us. If I could just..."

It's like being high and drunk at the same time, but worse. And itchy. Everything in her body itches or tingles or some combination of the two. Every nerve ending aching with one single idea, one single purpose. And it's only going to get worse. Phase two is you lose rational thought (as if that hadn't happened already, Skye thinks grimly) and then there goes eye hand coordination. The fun part comes with the asphyxia. Why this drug has to mess with their heads before killing them is beyond Skye, seems too cruel. Fitz said the horny part was an accident, an unintended side effect.

Skye knows what she is going to do. 

She is going to be logical. She is going to use her last shreds of logic and she is going to... _make a list_.

She is going to concentrate in all the things about Coulson that are _not sexy_. There must be a lot, surely. Like – his age. He's old, right? Old and gross. No, he is not, she corrects herself immediately, the drug freeing her synapses in an unwelcome way – he's old and Skye loves that, she finds the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes endearing, she thought she just didn't mind his age, when she started feeling all these awful feelings for the man, but now she realizes she loves it, it makes Coulson Coulson. Skye doesn't want to have met him earlier in his life and she doesn't wish he was younger, because this is how he got here, every day he's lived has conformed the man standing in front of Skye now. The very hot man standing in front of her now. Okay so the old age thing? Not unsexy. 

Skye racks her brain for more. He is stuck-up and Skye doesn't like stuck-up guys. Being stuck-up is not sexy to her. Right? Except with Coulson it is, because Skye knows where it comes from, why he feels he has to be like that, and she kind of wants to be the one to take that stick out of his ass, she wants to be the one to unravel him just like he has unravelled her. She just really wants to undo the knot of his tie. 

What else? The man is named Phil. She is positive _Phil_ is the opposite of a sexy name. Who would feel aroused by a guy named _Phil_ for fuck's sake? Not Skye, that's for sure. She doesn't want to criticize but, what kind of parents name their child _Phil_ , in the 1960s? Phil sounds like someone hailing from the Great Depression. Skye likes it though, it is misguiding like everything about Coulson – it is a name for a small person and Coulson is the opposite of that. God, she really wants to call him by his first name now. Would he even let her? She knows he told her not to before, but that was a long time ago, when they didn't know each other, not really. _Phil Phil Phil_ , she tastes the name in her mouth with relish, she wants Coulson to make her scream it. 

Okay, she's gone off the rails here. There has to be something she doesn't find sexy about him, even right now. Well, he has the most horrible haircut, that is true, and he is definitely balding. She can tell he doesn't mind, though, Coulson looks pretty confident in his looks and that is certainly alluring. 

Oh fuck, she thinks, oh no. She _must_ be in love, she doesn't even mind the fact that he's going bald.

This is not helping at all. This is doing the opposite of helping. She stops with the list before it actually makes her do something unforgivable.

She turns around once more. Coulson's expression when their eyes meet again is... Skye wishes, more than anything in the world, that expression was real and not the byproduct of getting poisoned with a sexual stimulant. But she thinks she'll go insane if she doesn't touch him; fucking stupid drug, ruining _everything_.

"I'm so sorry," Skye tells him. She hasn't done anything now, she's generally apologizing because he's seeing her this way.

"It's not your fault," he says, giving her a supportive smile and putting his hand on her shoulder and it's a bad, bad move. They look at each other, stunned.

"I need to get off," she says, sadly. She can hardly believe the words are out of her mouth.

"I guess you could..." Coulson gestures. 

_Fucking Christ is he even saying what I think he's saying?_ He really is making this much more complicated than it needs to be.

" _No_. Have you lost your mind?"

"Sorry. Is that inappropriate?" he asks.

 _No, it's not, it's the only thing I want to do right now, and I want you to watch me_.

"It is!"

"I _am_ sorry. I'm under some duress."

He looks and sounds pissed off. That's a problem because as much as Skye never wants to see Coulson angry at her she also thinks that, objectively speaking, he looks really hot when he's pissed off.

"We are going to die," Coulson says, like he's realizing just now.

"I know! But I'm not getting off in front of you."

She grabs his shoulders, wanting to shake him, to make a point. Just digging her fingernails slightly into him, just to feel the warmth of his body, it feels stupidly good.

"What do you need?" he says into her ear, hot breath teasing the skin of her neck.

 _I need to throw you on the hard, cold tile floor and ride you until neither of us remembers how to breathe_. 

"I need you to go stand in the other corner of the room."

He sighs sadly. "I can't do that."

"Yeah, no, I don't really want you to do that."

He runs his hand along the length of Skye's arm.

 _Oh fuck_ she thinks and she can't help it, she presses her flat palms to his chest, watching them move under the rhythm of his breathing. She can't help it, her hands trail down, feeling his muscles under the shirt. Annoying, annoying shirt.

"This is not us," he says, voice a bit hitched, but all in all he sounds like himself again. "This is an accident. We are on the field and we've been hit by the enemy. We won't let this define us. This situation – we _will_ understand it for what it is. This means nothing, we won't lose respect for one another after this. We are just doing whatever it takes to get out of here."

But she is lying to him, she's lying lying lying. 

She nods.

He's right. They have to get out of here. Skye has to get them out of here. She might be okay with dying here before facing further embarrassment but she is definitely not going to let him die. If she has to do this, if she has to lose Coulson's respect forever, if she has to give up any faint hope that he'll ever think about her the way she thinks about him, Skye can do that, she definitely can do that, if it means saving his life.

Her hand drops between her legs.

It's not like – she has never been shy, but this is Coulson, and she had imagined this moment a lot different. For one thing she had imagined it _real_.

"It's okay, Skye, it's okay," he whispers. He's holding her, one hand on the back of her neck, close to him. That actually helps, in a completely horrible way, because she thinks she might be able to come just from the feeling of his fingertips pressed to her nape, and his chest heaving against her breasts.

She puts her other hand over Coulson's eyes. He gets it – Skye can feel his eyelashes brush against her palm as he closes his eyes.

"Please, please, please, don't open your eyes."

"No," he says, sounding like that word is really difficult to form.

Their faces are so close now, they are absurdly almost cheek to cheek, and Skye wants to turns her head just a little bit to the left and just brush her mouth against his so much, so much is painful.

Painful, uh.

She looks at Coulson. She stops touching herself through her jeans.

"I can't do this," she says, very calmly, putting one hand on his shoulder and pushing him away.

He opens his eyes. "What are you doing?"

But he is too slow, she is already halfway through the room and she has started rummaging through the cabinets and all the stuff scattered over the desks.

"I know how we are going to get out here," she tells him, cheerful, because despite her absurd, probably useless plan, at least she has a plan. One that doesn't involve having an orgasm in front of her poor, unsuspecting boss.

"You know how to break the encryption," he says, sounding relieved.

"Nope. But I know how I'll concentrate long enough to figure it out. It's just that..."

"What?"

Skye finds what she needs in one of the drawers.

"You are not going to like _how_ ," she warns him.

She grabs the scalpel. Coulson's face goes white.

"No, Skye, wait!"

She stabs her left hand.

 

+

 

Skye looks at the bandage around her hand. It hurt a lot at the time (which was good) but it doesn't anymore, or maybe Simmons is a really good doctor. Not Skye's finest moment, she admits, but at least she had been able to fight the effects of the drug long enough to open the lab doors. And the amount of blood had freaked Coulson in a way that he, too, could cut through the mist of intoxication and help her out.

The only thing is: after what happened yesterday she doesn't think she can look Coulson in the eye ever again.

Which is why she is hiding in the backseat of the SUV.

Not the greatest of hiding places, though, because – 

"You missed the morning meeting," Coulson says when he opens the door.

"I'm sure it was very important."

"It wasn't," he says softly. "I told the team to take it easy the next couple of days. Can I come in?"

_Sure, why not, I promise not to assault you._

"Sure, why not."

He climbs in, closing the car door behind him. She sighs. She knows he'll insist on talking about it. Coulson is pretty cool about leaving her alone when she needs him to, but she suspects this is not one of those occassions.

She waits for it.

There's a beat, and she appreciates Coulson giving her the chance to speak first, but she is not going to take it.

"Skye, what's wrong? You haven't even looked at me all day." Well, great, she thinks, he had already noticed that she normally looks at him all the time.

"How can you...?" she starts, and she sounds like she is angry _at him_. "How can you even be here right now? How can you even stand next to me?"

" _How_...?"

She lets out a long, pained breath, and she looks away. His face, honest and good, is just too much. A beat, and this time Coulson lets Skye take her time with it.

"I'd understand if you were put off by all things me," she says, talking to herself as much as to him.

"What are you talking about?"

She turns to face him. "The way I behaved in the lab."

"We were under the influence of a drug, a powerful, _deathly_ drug."

"You don't get it. Do you? I did a horrible, horrible thing, Coulson."

"I don't understand."

"You thought it was the poison, but it wasn't just that. And that's like taking advantage."

"Skye...?"

She's messed up everything, there's no way she can look at his face ever again, so she might as well go for broke. She puts her hand on his forearm, curling her fingers around it carefully. She swallows.

"Have I ruined all my chances with you?" she asks in a tiny desperate voice.

"Your _chances_?"

He's going to make her say it with all the words and stuff. Skye has never been more mortified in her life.

"I wanted to do that with you... way before the drug."

Coulson's expression is soft, almost curious. "You did?"

"We almost died. Because it was you. Because you were extra-distracting to me, and that's unforgivable. I'm sorry. I know you like things to be professional and this is not very professional of me."

Nothing that has happened in the last few hours has been very professional. 

"I know that wasn't your fault," he says, like he is being purosedly dense. "Again, you were drugged."

"And that would have been okay, I wouldn't feel so guilty, if I didn't have feelings for you prior. But now I feel like I took advantage of you. I feel shitty."

"Advantage? You didn't do anything."

"I smelled you! And I run my stupid, unwanted hands all over you. And I...almost... _in front of you_. You deserve better, sir."

"They weren't unwanted," he says flatly.

"What?"

"Your hands all over me. They weren't exactly unwanted."

"Yeah because of the drug. That's even worse."

He grabs her arm, softly pressing his thumb against the inside of her elbow.

"No. Skye. Listen to the words. _Your attention wasn't unwanted_."

"Right." A beat. 

"You'll get there," he tells her, his lips curling into a smile.

" _Right_. Oh, wow. But the drug–"

"It made things... a lot more of a struggle for me, _personally_. But drug or not..."

She is not exactly sure why she is smiling but she can feel the corners of her mouth stretch. Then everything she feels is his mouth over hers, and it takes her by surprise, the intensity of it, knocking the air out of her lungs.

Now a lot of things make sense. Not yesterday, not just that. But the way Coulson has behaved around her for a long time, the way he has been looking at her for a long, long time. She just couldn't see it. And now she can feel it, in the way he is pushing his tongue into her mouth, and the way his hand is resting, not really casually, on Skye's hip.

The kiss is quite something, and she cannot process it just yet, but she pulls away, panting, because she wants to see his face. Wanting to confess everything, all her transgressions, all these months of lying to him.

"I've thought about kissing you, here in this car, a million times," she admits. "Did you ever think about me like that?"

"No," he replies and she doesn't mean to but her face falls a bit. He shakes his head. "I coudn't, Skye. I couldn't go down that road. For my own sanity."

She gets it. It's okay. It's almost sweet. And it makes sense, him being the man he is. She doesn't like the restraint that's written all over him, but she understands why he thinks he needs it. He doesn't. Not with her, anyway. 

His lips trail down her chin, the muscles of her jaw and neck. He tugs at her shirt, pressing those lips to the curve of her collarbone. He is not slow, Skye thinks, and her mouth goes dry then wet then dry again.

"Tell me," he says, voice dark and heavy, coming up to look into her eyes. "Back in that lab. Forget about the drug. What did you want to do to me?"

"Fuck, Coulson, so many things."

He holds her head in his hands. "And what do you want to do _now_?"

Skye just blinks. She knows what she wants. But she doesn't know if she can ever form the words. She tries, though.

"I know this is going to sound gross, because we've just..." What? Skye wonders. Confessed? Started dating? Admit we wanted to fuck? But it can't just be that. Skye loves him. She just doesn't know how to tell him right now. "But I think I want to finish what I started in that lab."

His eyes go very wide. "You mean..."

"You think it's totally weird, don't you? Forget it, it's really weird."

He grabs the back of her neck – she remembers how it felt, when he did it in the lab, under the influence. This is so much better.

"It's definitely weird," he says, and kisses her, deep and hard. "What do you need?"

"I want you to watch me."

He pulls at her hair a bit, bringing her mouth to his.

"Okay, okay," when he lets her go. This is happening. She feels like a teenager, for better or worse.

She can feel his eyes follow her every movement now, very intently, burning her skin without hurting her. This is good, this is not like in the lab. She aches for him but it's the good kind, the hopeful kind.

She quickly undoes the first two buttons of her jeans before – _oh fuck_. Skye suddenly realizes her left hand is basically useless and one hand versus jeans is not a battle anyone can win.

"Would you mind helping?" she gestures.

Coulson nods and hooks his fingers around the waistband of his jeans and pulls them down, and her underwear too, down below her knees.

There's a beat between them, silence if silence is heavy breathing and Skye squirming in her seat, feeling weird and dirty and wonderful being half-naked against the leather. Coulson is staring at her thighs and she is staring at the thin film of sweat running along his hairline.

She watches him bite his lower lip, make a strange face.

"What's wrong?"

He lifts his gaze from her legs to her face. "Nothing. It's just that you are so – _I want you_ so badly."

 _Ohmygodohfuck_. Her heart is in her throat. Her heart is everywhere, actually. It hurts. She should have let him die in that lab, the bastard. "Next time give me a little warning before going and saying something like that."

"Sorry."

Now he is touching her knee, pressing his thumb against the outline of her bones.

"If you keep that up, there will be nothing for you to watch, sir."

Now he smirks, all confident and like he did this every day. Skye reflects backs in all the awful things she thought about to convince herself Coulson wasn't sexy – that he had a stupid name and that he was balding, how absurd. She almost feels guilty.

She kisses him, a bit to slip it by him, the movement of her hand falling between her legs and beginning to move in familiar gestures. She knows it was her idea, and she wants this, but she feels a bit embarrassed all of the sudden. Coulson hasn't even said what he wants from this yet. And what if he thinks she's too forward, after this? Or he supposes she only wants sex? Skye can feel the heat in her cheeks as she deepens the kiss and runs her tongue along the roof of his mouth. 

This time it's him who ends the kiss.

"Relax," he tells her with a sweet, knowing smile.

"How do you know...?"

He cups her face in his hands, gives her a quick, shallow, reassuring kiss. "You're an open book."

She is so offended by that. 

"Well, maybe to you," she protests.

"Yes, _to me_ ," Coulson says, kissing her again, first softly and then kissing her dirty and open-mouthed, changing gears without granting her a moment to get used.

She said he was stuck-up. What the hell was wrong with her? That drug must have really impaired her judgement, this is the opposite of stuck-up. So maybe it's okay that she is bold and weird and gross because Coulson looks like he has seen a lot of stuff; Coulson looks like he wouldn't assume Skye is bad or impure or any of that crap a Catholic education ingrained in her, all that crap that still lingers, just because she desires him and wants to show him just how much. No, he might be her boss with a tendency to put on a frown, but he doesn't look like he is going to judge her.

This time she's so distracted by the kiss that her fingers move of their own will, teasing her to match how good it feels to finally have Coulson pressed against her, his mouth hot and wet and definitely not a fantasy.

"This is almost too intimate," she tells him when she pauses to take a deep breath.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "It's just – this is not about getting off in front of you. _At all_."

"I know."

"You want this... with me?"

He brushes his fingers across her forehead. Skye feels tiny, uncomfortably young against his body. He makes a sort of falling noise at the back of his throat.

"Skye, I want pretty much everything with you." He sounds pained but hopeful. 

That voice gets to Skye more than anything, and she starts moving her hand between her legs again.

She's never jerked off in front of a guy before. Not while sober, anyway (and that one time was just Miles' birthday present so it doesn't count). She's glad it's Coulson, and she's glad it's here. She feels safe in here.

"Do you need me to close my eyes this time?" he teases her. 

"No. I want you to see me."

She actually hears his mouth go dry, a popping sound when his lips part unconsciously. He is looking at her with lust and Skye can hardly believe it's real, she wonders if they are still under the effects of the drug and they just don't know it. But it feels real. He slides closer to her on the seat, pressing their bodies together until it's a bit more difficult for her to move but she doesn't mind. His hand on the small of her back feels too hot and comforting at the same time. She is drawing lazy circles with her fingers because it's not like it's going to take her long to get there anyway and she wants to memorize every moment of this, in case she won't be able to believe it actually happened, later.

She wants to tell him so many things, if she hadn't lost the capacity to speak altogether because _holy shit they are doing this_ , she is doing this and he is watching and – 

She could tell him about that time she started doing this one night in her bunk thinking about him and it freaked her out so much – not because she hadn't known she wanted him back then, she knew, but because she felt she was violating him in some way, using him, and she wanted something better for Coulson, not just being the subject of a hopeless crush by a twenty-something.

And she could just tell him how long she's wanted to do something like this with him, not specifically this, but _anything_ , how badly she had wanted for him to look at her like he's been looking at her now.

And she forgets all the months of guilt and frustration and hopelessness because now Coulson, fucking _Phil_ Coulson and his stupid name, is sucking on the spot under her left ear. Skye trembles.

"Is that okay?" he asks, lifting his head.

_Is that a fucking real question now?_

"Is that a real question now?" she says, voice a bit too high.

Coulson smiles. It's not – it's not a smirk or a self-satisfied smile, just a really nice really genuine smile. Skye clenches her hand instinctively and she is so close.

"I'm so close," she tells him, she has abandoned any attempt at maintaining a filter between her head and her mouth now but Coulson's smile gets wider and darker and sexier so maybe this is a good thing.

He presses their foreheads together. Their faces are so close it's almost surreal. She can see every line and imperfection of his face; she can see the light rash that raises a spot of pink over the pale skin of his neck, over the collar of his shirt. Everything is so sharp now that she's on the edge of dizziness, he is so solid, such a real person, and then he slips his left hand under Skye's shirt and brushes his thumb across her belly and up her ribcage, hungry little touches like he can't stand not touching her right now. Skye smiles, what she really really wants is seeing him lose his cool. She'll work on that later.

In the palm of his hand he holds the outline of her scars now, scars she thought would have somehow faded by now, her recovery miraculous but not equally miraculous everywhere, leaving this trace behind forever she suspects, the trace Coulson is tracing with his fingers, the shared experience fuelling desire rather than dampening it. They are here, in the back of the SUV, doing this, because of things like these scars. 

She rolls her hips against her hand and she comes, deep and slow, as Coulson presses his palm against her stomach like an anchor, and as he presses a long, closed-mouthed kiss against her lips.

When the world goes a bit askew (not too much, because he is still holding her with one arm around her shoulders) and she slides a bit down the seat, exhausted and happy, Skye thinks again about that list, the things that are unsexy about Coulson, and she is no idiot, she knows there are plenty –she loves the man, but she is still unconvinced about the hairstyle– and there must be a lot of things about her that Coulson finds totally unattractive, but fuck her if she remembers what they are, and if she cares at all.

She closes her eyes and she has no awareness of her surroundings for a moment, until she feels Coulson run his hands across her thighs, ghost touches to soothe her rather than make her uncomfortable in her oversensitivity.

She opens her eyes; he seems very concentrated, brow furrowed and all. She realizes he really, really likes her legs. She clears her throat to get his attention back. He looks at her with a wishful look on his face, it makes him seem younger than usual.

"Hey," she calls to him.

"Hey."

"Do you think...? Do you mind if I call you _Phil_ now?" she asks.

He narrows his eyes. "Is that a real question? Of course you can call me by my first name."

"Good," she says, reaching her hand to catch his. "Phil."

"Good," he repeats, squeezing her fingers.

"That was great, by the way," Skye tells him, sitting up, gesturing between them, and giving him a mischiveous smirk. "Now _you_ do it."

Coulson stares at her with a mixture of panic and delight.


	5. my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart [/zombie apocalypse]

The first of the Avengers to get bitten is Stark and nobody is surprised by that.

Everybody is a bit more surprised when Thor travels to Asgard to ask for help in this crisis and Odin refuses him. He never comes back. The virus does something weird to the Hulk's biology, makes him weaker, flesh softer, and even though it takes Captain America and Black Widow and a whole CIA squad to put him down, they manage to put him down. 

Those were the days, when the government thought its biggest problem was dealing with undead superheroes.

When there was a government.

 

+

 

Two months later nobody remembers the Avengers, there are rumors Captain Rogers is dead, and North America is an empty carcass.

 

+

 

As for them, the team is reduced and scattered, so they are the last ones holding out, the only two who have chosen to stay together.

They know May is out there, somewhere, doing her bloody part, because from time to time they hear reports of a ghost, a shadow, a zombie-killer wrecking havoc among the undead way up north.

They don't know where Simmons could be, if she's even alive; she walked away after having to put a bullet not just in Fitz but also in Trip.

 

+

 

"I've already been dead so maybe I shouldn't worry," Coulson says.

It's early days. Before his grim humor became just fatigue. It's early days, when he still insisted on shaving, and on wearing suits sometimes. It's early days, when he still retains the capacity to smile. That will end very soon.

Skye doesn't like this joke at all, but he keeps telling it.

 

+

 

There is still the good fight to fight.

There has to be.

Because if there isn't why are they alive.

(if there is no good fight to fight why are they killing themselves every day in twin rooms, in winter pools full of fallen leaves, among human debris, cleaning scratches and road rash in public toilets, eating canned food, eating from vandalized vending machines, sleeping in cars, raiding houses full of cruel family photographs, burying corpses nobody else would bother to bury at this point)

 

+

 

You have to burn the bodies or more zombies would come and gather, and they could track you and find you.

They learned this very early on.

They learned this early on and Skye hasn't been able to shake the smell of blood and ashes since that day. No matter how many showers she takes in other people's houses and abandoned hotels, no matter how often she changes into new clothes she takes from the untouched shelves of shops left with the doors opens, the life of buildings interrupted any ordinary day. 

The smell doesn't go away or maybe it's the memory of the smell which doesn't.

 

+

 

A zombie vomits dark goo (blood and bile and who knows what else, Skye is not in the mood to speculate) into her hair and good luck getting that out.

"I can't travel like this," she says. They are in a gas station and they've just managed to kill four of them with difficultty. It's the hardest day they've had in a while. And Skye can't deal with smelling of undead the whole day.

"Let me," Coulson says.

He guides her to the employees' toilet and brings a knife to her hair. He puts one steady hand on Skye's shoulder. When he finishes (goodbye hair, the sacrifices one has to do for the zombie apocalypse, Skye really liked her long hair) he bends her over the sink and helps her wash the rest of her hair as best as he can, his thumb wiping the black blood off her neck, drawing soothing circles on her skin, there's still a bit of the old Coulson in that gesture.

This is her life right now.

Her life is clothes ruined with zombie blood and waiting in the toilet of a gas station, naked, until Coulson brings her some new clothes, even if it's mostly oversized t-shirts with the face of a country singer Skye doesn't know on them.

 

+

 

But if she spends her days hunting the undead and looking for survivors to lead into safety, she spends her night tweaking the radio system. Internet went boom a month and a half ago, it's funny how it actually survived longer than government and public services, longer than an organized army. There's still bits of land with electricity and running water but mostly it's zombies rampaging through a post-apocalyptic landscape. Skye is busy building small transmitters, figuring out a way to build up a network much like the one truck drivers used.

This analog stuff is not her thing, at all, she has no trouble admitting that, and even though she stole some textbooks and manuals from a raided Barnes & Noble she mostly wishes Fitz was here to handle the engineering part. She wishes Fitz was here, period.

The nights are also shallow sleep, with Coulson opening and closing the blinds, three, four times, like a nervous tic, always taking the bed closest to the window. He sleeps lightly and every little noise sends him into panic – if Skye has to use the bathroom in the middle of then night she always finds him sitting up and waiting for her when she returns.

But Coulson is not the only one dealing really poorly with their nights.

One time Skye finds herself at three in the morning, next to his bed, reaching two fingertips across his heart to check it's still beating. Coulson wakes up with a start, terrified, imagining they are under attack; he grabs Skye's wrist, forcefully at first, and then, when he realizes who she is, a gentle, careful touch.

"Skye...?"

"Just checking," she says, fingers struggling against his grip, still itching with the longing to prove empirically that he is here, alive, next to her, with her, _alive_.

They don't have nightmares because what would be the point.

 

+

 

"Skye, Safe Haven is just a bedtime story," he says, for the twentieth time.

"How do you know? People are talking about it over the radio. I think we should go to Mexico."

"We are not going to Mexico."

 

+

 

They encounter living, breathing human beings from time to time. They help with what they can. Give directions to small towns they know are safe, small, organized groups of people still lighting torches of hope.

One time a couple of men try to steal their water and Coulson breaks one of the guys' nose.

"Funny thing is," Skye wonders out loud, afterwards in the car, "we would have given them the water if they had asked in the first place. People suck."

"We did give them water," Coulson says. Because yes, Skye had insisted on leaving a couple of gallons with them.

She shrugs. "Well, they were jerks. Doesn't mean we had to be."

He looks at her with a strange expression, like he is blaming her for some crime Skye has never even heard of.

 

+

 

Coulson has been gone longer than usual this evening but Skye doesn't really have time to worry about this, about whether he is dead in a ditch or already turned into a zombie or what, because she spends hours with the lights off and listening the familiar noises outside. There are three of them by the empty pool. She has weapons and after months of doing this she is not completely useless in a battle.

But she can't take on three of them on her own and she knows it.

 

+

 

He finds her sitting on the floor, between their beds, still listening closely to the noises outside, her gun over the covers, easy to reach.

"What happened?" Coulson asks. "I saw three of them leave ten minutes ago. I was hiding across the street."

"They trashed the room next door. Passed ours by. Lucky... I guess. I'm okay, I'm okay."

He grabs her by the elbows and makes her stand up; she doesn't quite trust her knees yet and Coulson is looking her all over, checking she is telling the truth.

"You?" she asks, holding on to him, curling her fingers around his elbows. "Your clothes look all messed up."

"Had a scrap with one near the diner," he says. The bag hanging from his shoulder looks heavy with supplies. At least there's that. "No harm done."

"Are you sure?"

They do this whenever they get separated. They have to, for their survival and sanity. They have to make sure the other hasn't been bitten. They have to check themselves. These are the rules. Always get more water. Never leave a car closer than two blocks from where you are actually staying. Never turn on the lights, even if the electricity still works, in a private home. Always always check for bites, even if the other person says they're all right. _Specially_ if the other person says they are all right.

Skye takes his bag and drops it on the floor. She starts undoing the top buttons of his shirt.

He stops her, grabbing her wrists.

"I'm fine, I swear."

"Well, this is what we do. We decided on day one. And why are you not asking me as well? I could have been bitten."

She takes a step back and starts stripping.

"Skye, I believe you."

"Well, you shouldn't," she argues. "We can't break the rules."

Coulson takes the two handguns hidden under the hem of his shirt and throws them on his bed, letting Skye do whatever she wants, not looking at her as she undresses.

When she is down to her underwear she steps into his space, turning around so that her back is towards him. She takes his hand and brings it up to her shoulder, hurrying him to check for bites. Coulson doesn't do it at first, he is being incomprehensibly weird, instead of cold-blooded and pragmatic as he has been since this whole zombie problem started, but then his fingers move across her shoulderblade, the line of her spine, across her lower back. The touch is too gentle, too careful, but at least Skye knows she isn't infected herself, so maybe she can let it slide for now. But he _is_ acting strange. She turns around and he repeats the operation, checking her hips and her stomach.

"All clear," he says. There's something off in his voice.

Skye worries; he can't have let himself be bitten. That's outside the realm of the possible. Skye has buried friends these past months, people she loved, sometimes buried them with her own bare hands, but she is not going to lose Coulson.

"Now let me," she tells him.

"I told you, I'm okay, this is not necessary," he protests.

"Look, sir, I love you, but I'm not risking getting eaten in the zombie apocalypse because suddenly you have modesty issues."

He makes a weird face; whether it's because of the _sir_ (because yeah, civilization breakdown and all) or because of the _I love you_ (and seriously, did he really have no idea) Skye doesn't want to know. But at least he lets her be – she walks around him, behind him and helps him lose the shirt and the undershirt.

She runs her fingers over his back and shoulders, pressing her palms and fingertips, checking each inch of skin for a cut or a mark.

His skin under her hands feels hotter than it should. She wonders if he is actually okay.

And he is – he is moving, he is lifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously.

"Stop fidgeting. Being nervous is a sign that you might be hiding something. Like the fact that you are going to turn into a zombie."

They've been this close before; they have healed each other's wounds and checked for bites before. He's never seemed this nervous before.

"Stop moving."

"I can't," he says softly, and he sounds like he's choking, Skye has never heard that voice come from him before. "I can't, Skye. You said you loved me."

Skye feels like she's been stabbed in a lung – well, that is pretty colorful, even for the apocalypse, and she has no idea how that actually feels (probably a lot worse than this) but she likes the image.

"Coulson?" because she has to know, she really does.

"I'm sorry," is all he says and it's enough, it really is.

She doesn't know what to do, how to begin, how to break this stalemate. They are half-undressed, his skin trembles under her hand. Skye leans in a bit (just a bit, they have been this close all the time) and presses her mouth against the back of his neck. She stops to think how dry his skin looks and feels these days, a bit like hers, like parchment between their fingers, cheap soap's fault, blood's fault, scrubbing your body raw with cheap soap to get the blood out's fault. She hugs him from behind, feeling him shiver the moment her hands lock together over his stomach.

They stand like that for a moment, breathing together, breathing deeply.

Skye doesn't know how to begin.

Coulson does, though, because he unlocks her hands and turns around. His eyes are clouded with lust and doubt.

"All clear," she says, breathless.

He grabs her neck, crushing their mouths together. His lips are as dry and cracked as the rest of his skin, the unforgiving sun, hours hunting every day, the shitty food and the struggle to find bottled water. He undoes her bra as her fingers find the buckle of his belt and suddenly they are filled with a purpose they haven't felt in all these months on the road. Maybe because this is the first moment in a long time that doesn't contain death – it is _about death_ but it does not contain it. It's all precise and rushed movements, mouths and hands and burning skin.

Coulson pushes her against one of the beds and he is not gentle and Skye wouldn't want him to be, not now, not today. He takes a long, excruciatingly long look at her body – this is not the first time he has seen her naked since the world ended, it can't be, but it is the first time he _sees her naked_ and Skye almost hesitates. He kisses her shoulder, her neck, her breast. Skye, she just wants to hold him in her arms. Then he pushes his hand between her legs, rough, callused fingers against her blatant desire. This is about death, all right, but they are alive. She feels it. Maybe for the first time since they buried Fitz she feels like they are alive.

She asks Coulson to fuck her because she knows right now he can't take something as vague as love, right now both of them need precise, tangible things, like her legs around his waist, like his cock in the moment before everything changes between them. Skye is glad that in the apocalypse she's still taking birth control pills for some reason, because there's no way she is going to stop this now but there's also no way she's going to fucking risk any funny stuff after the end of the world.

"Skye. Are you sure?" he asks her, and for a moment he sounds like that boss she used to have, the one with the suits and antique gadget collection and the flying car. Not the one who could burn a whole building to kill whatever is inside, the one who doesn't shave, the one who doesn't ever smile.

Skye nods because it doesn't matter; she loves them both.

 

+

 

Afterwards he is caressing her back and for a moment Skye thinks he is still checking for bites. Then she realizes he is just drawing lazy shapes between her shoulderblades, like a lover. She can hear him sigh behind her and she pretends to be asleep, because she believes he is about to tell her that this shouldn't have happened, that this is wrong. About to tell her this can't happen again. But then days pass and he doesn't say anything like that. Days pass and he keeps touching her like a lover.

 

+

 

She is trying to get into an electronics store, trying to find new components for the next batch of radio units. She can't even remember the name of this town. This is one of the few shops that hasn't been vandalized yet. She tries to break the glass door but something goes wrong, something goes terribly wrong and there's a shard of glass sticking out of her forearm and suddenly her shirt is all red, red, red.

Coulson hurries her back to their car where he keeps a spare first aid kit. He's applying gauze while he mutters _fuck, fuck, fuck_ under his breath. There's so much blood Skye is almost fascinated by it rather than alarmed. When she stares back at Coulson his hands are completely covered in red, red, red. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he repeats, or maybe he's saying her name.

Skye doesn't remember much of the next twenty-four hours. She wakes up in a king sized bed with a huge headache. Her arm is tightly bandaged from knuckle to elbow, and there are blood stains all over the bedsheets. She feels weak but at least she is alive. How could she be so stupid? She almost had gone and killed herself on a fucking glass door. She almost had gone and left Coulson alone.

Coulson. It takes her a moment, in her dizziness, to figure out where Coulson is. He is right by her side on the bed, but resting over the covers instead, his arm wrapped around Skye's waist, sleeping. Her blood all over his hands.

When he wakes up he takes her hand, examines the bandage to check if it holds.

"I'm sorry," Skye says, because she almost did that to him, the one thing neither is allowed to do to the other, the iron-clad contract between them.

He shakes his head, brings her hand to his lips and kisses her fingertips one by one.

Then he points to a bag on the floor. Wire and cords sticking out. He says: "When you were stable I popped back to the shop, grabbed a couple of things I thought you might need."

She puts her arms around his neck like a child. She tells him she loves him. Or maybe she is just saying his name.

 

+

 

The next weeks are a blur of death, radio silence and sex.

They go from town to town without passing another human being. There are some zombies, but even those are scattered, on their own, easy to kill.

The next motel they find (motels are a lot better than private residences, always, much easier to defend) they don't leave for days.

Coulson's week-old beard itches and scratches against the soft skin of the inside of her thighs. He goes down on her for what feels like hours. Skye loses count of the days, the number of orgasms. He maps her out like an island. Her hair has grown quite long already, he threads his fingers into it, carefully at times, and at times pulling in a gesture that would bring her to her knees if she hadn't already dropped to the motel room floor, quicker than him, her hands flat against his hips, lips around his cock and Skye knows this is just another way she has of checking, beyond any doubt, that he is alive. He is alive he is alive he is alive and he is alive when he is inside her and he is alive when he brings his hand between their bodies so that they'd come together and when he frowns in concentration, his body buried in her, Skye remembers her old boss, the one who would get mad if you didn't use a coaster for your drink and she wants to cry, but at least when she eventually cries she does it silently and into the hollow of Coulson's neck.

 

+

 

Maybe it's just the apocalypse but she has never lost herself so much in another person.

Maybe it's just Coulson.

There are those nights when he fucks her not like the world has already ended but like it is ending _right now_.

 

+

 

As soon as they start sleeping together Skye stops talking about finding Safe Haven, seeing if it's real.

 

+

 

Sometimes she stops and really thinks about what it all means.

She finds it sad that it took the end of the world for her to be the kind of girl Coulson would want. It took her being his only possibility. He might love her (he fucks her like he loves her, kisses her like he loves her, looks at her like he loves her) but she knows that's only because he doesn't have any other choice. Not in this world, and this is the only world left.

 

+

 

"Is it just me or we have encountered less undead as of late?" she asks. Because it's true. These days it feels like they are advancing acros a wasteland not a battlefield.

Coulson is cautious, though, and she likes that, reminds her of the man he used to be, the man she fell in love with before she fell in love with this other man in front of her.

"Don't get comfortable. In my experience that's the kind of thing you don't say without knocking on wood first."

 

+

 

They find a house with its own water tank and its own generator and its own water pump and – 

"Hey, Coulson, come here. _Hot water_."

He runs upstairs and after the adequate precautions he strips naked even faster than Skye.

It's a bad, bad idea, getting in the shower at the same time, one of them should have stayed outside to guard the house, but certain things are worth risking your life for, even in the apocalypse, and Coulson doesn't protest when Skye joins him under the warm water. He grabs her head and kisses her hard, and then he grabs her hips and turns her around, pushing her against the glass, fingernails digging into her waist, and teeth scrapping and biting tenderly along the curve of her shoulder. He's like another person these days.

They stay in the house that night, too tempted by the miracle of hot water, a working stove.

Coulson finds only-relatively-stale pasta and a can of chopped tomatoes and he makes them dinner. It's the closest thing to a date they've had, Skye thinks, but knows she can't say anything about it to Coulson. Instead: they are in the kitchen and she runs her fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower; he leans into the touch, closing his eyes, letting out a tiny, content moan.

That night they sleep in the marriage bed of people long dead and when dawn breaks they make love in silence, on their sides, face to face, their eyes completely open and focused.

 

+

 

"What are we looking for?" she asks, as Coulson makes them roam through the empty streets of a small town.

"A car that can make it through a long journey."

"Where are we going?"

"We are going to Mexico," he replies, not looking at her.

"Coulson..."

He presses his hand against her back as he bids her walk faster.

 

+

 

They go back to sleeping in the car, as they did in the early days (which seem a decade ago to Skye, but it was just a little over a year).

"Great job on stealing a car with a cd player," she tells him. "Not so great on finding a car with no cds at all inside."

She sighs. She wanted to hear some music, she doesn't know how much of listening-to-music remains for the human race as a whole. She was not a big music fan before, but she has come to appreciate it a lot more since the world ended. It's one of those things you really miss after the zombies come. She also misses coffee chains, and Twitter.

"We can find something tomorrow," he tells her, pushing her hair off her eyes.

There's always tomorrow, of course, except tomorrow is always about finding water, finding food, finding somewhere to hide, hunting, killing. It's never about music.

Skye turns on the radio, where there's only ever static, apocalyptic static, but it helps her sleep.

 

+

 

Mexico turns out to be not such a good idea and of course it's her fault that they are going to die trapped in the back room of a chemist, half a dozen zombies trying to break into.

This is it, this is where the journey ends, and of course it was all her stupidity that did it; her foolish belief that they could still fix the world somehow, maybe save each other in the process. The absurd, desperate belief that some day she will see Coulson smile again. But of course her sentimentalism has brought them here, and now they are going to get eaten by zombies. Serves Skye right. But he deserved better, he always deserved better.

She looks at Coulson, thinks this would be the perfect moment for an incredibly late confession or something.

But she doesn't. She doesn't tell him. Because it's always been too late.

 

+

 

After all these months surviving on their own ultimately they are saved from zombies by Captain America.

No, actually, Skye thinks, that makes sense.

Except Steve doesn't look like Captain America at all. Maybe it's the beard – which, Skye doesn't pass this chance to tease Coulson about it, is a real, thick beard and not whatever Coulson is going for with his (Coulson growls and rolls his eyes at that, because this Coulson doesn't smile).

They are led to a jeep by Captain America, while he barks orders at someone called Sam through the comms, and the comms are working, Skye can't get over that.

"Agent Coulson," Cap calls and Skye feels a shiver down her spine, she hadn't heard anyone (not even herself) call him that in over a year. "I see there are ways and ways of being undead."

Coulson nods, shakes the man's hand.

 

+

 

The first thing is Skye watches as Coulson inquires about casualties, people he doesn't see around, people he cares about.

"Fury? Barton?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Blake?"

"Who?"

Coulson rubs his eyes. "I need a shower. And a shave."

Steve nods and both he and Skye watch the man walk out of the room.

"Do you think you can get him a suit?" Skye asks Captain Freaking America once Coulson is out of sight. "I think it might help."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," he says, looking about as worried as Skye feels.

 

+

 

So, it turns out Safe Haven is a real thing, but it's not exactly a compound like the myth said, more like a summer camp.

"Come on, soldiers, I'll find you a couple of bunks," Natasha Romanoff tells them as she leads the way through the kitchen and into the bedroom area. 

Because yeah, Natasha Romanoff is here, she wasn't dead and she hadn't given up the fight like it was rumored. She even gave Coulson a small, shy hug when she first saw him walk in through the doors.

"This is Skye," Coulson introduces her, very neutral.

"That's your handle?" Natasha asks and she nods, not knowing what she is asking. "That's you? You've been giving people transmitters, telling them how to keep in touch with each other so they'll know which towns are zombie-free."

"Well, yeah." That was the original the idea. She didn't think she'd ever heard it repeated back at her by the Black Widow.

"You'll be working comms with me," she tells Skye.

"How can I help?" Coulson asks, once he's placed all their stuff on the bunk bed.

Natasha makes a pensive gesture. "I don't know if there's much work around here for a middle-aged bureaucrat, but I guess if you ask Steve he'll take pity on you and give you something to do."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and for a moment it reminds Skye of the boss she used to have.

"You know, Agent Romanoff," Coulson says. "I have not missed you at all."

 

+

 

Coulson looks at home here.

It's not that Skye is not feeling it – she is, she is helping figure out if there is a way to use old radio cables that still run across the ocean. Her big idea so far is to go back to the age of the telegraph. She is glad to be of use, of course.

She watches Coulson as he argues energetically with Steve, with Sam. As he makes plans with Natasha. As he receives news from Hill, who tells him she's seen May quite recently, so at least they know May is alive. It's times like this when Skye wishes she wasn't alone with Coulson – and that's something she hadn't thought while they were on the road, killing zombies and just surviving together. But now she's safe she wishes Simmons was here, so at least she could _talk_. Coulson is definitely out of reach now (he has a mission, he has a purpose, he has a place in the world that's real, and not the fake replacement of his life with Skye).

He looks like a new man, now that he is clean-shaven, even though he hasn't gone back to wearing a suit just yet. The man Skye made love to, the man who trembled under her hands, he was old and tired. Coulson doesn't look old and tired anymore, and she is so happy to see that, see those features relax and recover their light. But she also knows what that means for her. He's shedding the scales of their journey and he is slowly making his way back to the man he used to be, he looks more and more like Skye's old boss with every hour, and Skye loved that man but that man would have never touched her in an abandoned motel.

They've been here for three days and Coulson hasn't touched her again and Skye is not an idiot, she knew what it would be like, being around people again. She's end-of-the-world girl; what they had was about death and now Coulson must have realized he's going to survive, to live.

 

+

 

The fourth day Steve tells them to go check out a nearby beach, because it's _beautiful and safe_ and because they look like they could use a break. He kept his word and found a suit for Coulson but Coulson has refused to wear it so far, today he's just wearing the pale shirt that came with the suit, but over his well-worn jeans. He borrows a car from the camp and he and Skye follow Steve's incredibly accurate hand-drawn map.

It's a cloudy morning.

The beach is beautiful and cold and completely empty, the waves another layer of silence rather than their own form of noise. They sit on the damp sand for what seems hours, though Skye is pretty sure it's only some minutes, before either of them even thinks about speaking.

Then Coulson puts his hand on her knee, comforting. 

"You don't have to do that," Skye tells him.

"What?"

She gestures. "That. _This_. You don't have to do it anymore. The world is safe, or it will be. There's hope, and there's electricity and running water, and a lot of other people, not just us. It's not just you and me anymore. You don't have to push yourself to..."

"I'm afraid you've lost me," he says, looking confused.

I'm afraid I've lost you too, Skye thinks.

"Look, I'm not naive. I know this was an end of the world thing. You don't have to do it anymore. You don't have to kiss me, or fuck me, or feel stuff for me. It's okay, I get it."

Coulson stares at her for a long time. It's a hard, cold stare.

"How could someone as stupid as you have survived the apocalypse?"

"Hey!"

He shakes his head, runs his hand over his face.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just that – I don't think I've ever been as angry at you as I am right now."

"Why? Because I told you the truth? Because I told you how I feel?"

"Those are two different things, two _very_ different things, Skye."

"Come on. I might be stupid but I'm not stupid enough to believe you would have done this if I hadn't been literally the only woman left on the planet to you."

He just looks stunned. "How the hell can you be so insecure, during the end of the world?"

She knew he wouldn't get it. He's a nice guy. He would have stuck with her out of duty and affection, but she can't let him do that.

"Because you are a very cool guy, Coulson. And I don't know if you've even noticed the kind of girl I am but cool guys like you never happen to girls like me, not even with the huge, huge help of a zombie apocalypse."

That seems to give him some pause. But just for a moment.

"Well, I don't know about being cool, but this guy happened to you. And it had nothing to do with the zombie apocalypse."

He kisses her, and it tastes like he is proving a point more than anything. But Skye calms down, opens her mouth to let him in, to let him run his tongue however he wants, and she finally, finally listens to the point Coulson is trying to make. It doesn't mean she completely believes it, but it's a start. She grabs his collar and presses him tightly against her chest.

"I'm sorry," she says against his mouth. "I didn't mean to be so..."

She's not sure what she's been. Herself, she guesses.

"No, it's my fault," he tells her. "I didn't think I had to use words. But apparently I wasn't giving you what you needed, all this time. I was just being selfish once more. _I am_ sorry."

"No, no, no, you've been perfect. You saved me. I swear I've only made it this far because you were with me."

Coulson holds her face in his hands. "And I swear to you, I have only made it this far because I was with you."

He kisses her again. There's quite a bit of wind and the kiss tastes of sea salt.

"I know we didn't start this in the best possible way," he says, running his fingers across her forehead. "We started it in a really messed up way. But I promise you, the end of the world was just a circumstance to me, not _a reason_."

"I'm going to have to hear it, A.C." Skye admits, because she is that person.

"Okay, okay," he sucks in a breath, as if he is going to need it. "Zombies or not, I'm in love with you, Skye."

She takes the hand that's still caressing her face and holds it in hers, weaves her fingers with his. She smiles. She thinks it's the first time she has smiled in years. It isn't but it feels that way.

And well, Coulson smiles back at her.

Who knows? Maybe after the end of the world Skye actually has a chance of holding on to this, holding on to him.


	6. warmer than warm [/huddling for warmth]

The cabin doesn't feel any warmer than the outside – in fact Skye is pretty sure this is colder than standing under the falling snow. God, she hates snow. She hates this. She figured some time ago she was probably going to die on a mission for SHIELD (well, not-SHIELD, but technicallities, they are still trying to figure that one out) but she never imagined she'd die of cold.

"You have to take off your jacket," Coulson says, like she is an idiot or something.

"I'm trying!" she says. But she didn't know how difficult it was, pulling a piece of wet clothing from your body when you can't even feel your fingers.

He walks to her, pushes her hands away gently and unzips her jacket for her.

"Umm, thanks," she says.

She looks down at her hands. They are not blue or anything, but she feels like they should be. They are numb, except for the bits that are beginning to warm up and sting so much that she could scream. Coulson looks at her face, then her hands, and then back up at her, with that team-leader worried expression of his that is so familiar.

"Here," he holds her hands, open-palmed, in his. He does something pretty cool; he bends over and breathes hot air into her palms and fingers. He does this a couple of times and then he rubs his warm hands against hers until she starts feeling stuff again.

Even though her skin hurts where she is beginning to regain sensitivity Coulson's gesture seems like the nicest thing she's felt in hours.

"So much better," she tells him, grateful, and the smile he gives her in return _is_ the nicest thing she's felt in hours.

"We have to..." he gestures, taking off his jacket and sweater and beginning to work on the buttons of his shirt.

Right. Their clothes are full of snow, which is to say they are completely drenched. Right. Danger of hypothermia. Skye knows what comes next and she does as he tells her, beginning with removing her boots and wet socks because at this point she would really, really like to feel something in his feet, even if it's just the hard floor.

She's not sure how they have ended up stranded in the middle of a mission, with blizzard alert and in a tiny log cabin with one mattress and some fucking blankets to share – Skye thought this type of situations only ever happened in porno, which, yeah, doesn't apply here because, yeah, _Coulson_ , there's no way this could go the way of porno with him. Not that she wanted it to.

"All your clothes are wet," he points out.

"Yours too."

"I think my t-shirt is okay," he is checking.

Well, after all he isn't the idiot who kept slipping on the snow and falling on his face all the way to the cabin. No, that was her.

Skye tries to feel under her clothes.

"Don't take this the wrong way but if I don't want to die of hypothermia I think I'll have to strip naked in front of you, sir. Like, _right now_."

"I'll turn around," he says.

"Yeah, I assumed, Mr Gentleman."

She doesn't know why she says it like an accussation. It's not like she wanted him to look. Or like she wants to look, as he is undressing down to his white t-shirt and his boxers. (She takes a peek, totally innocent, out of curiosity, who wouldn't)

Thankfully her last layer of clothing is dry.

She feels exposed standing here in her underwear with Coulson, and yet she feels peculiarly safe. It's a strange combination. She knows he wouldn't let her die of cold, and also wouldn't look at her naked with anything less than total respect. She guesses that if she has to be in this super awkward situation it's a good thing she has to be here with him. And if they really are in some sort of mortal danger she definitely wants Coulson here with her.

"We have blankets, that's good," he says, looking around, avoiding her semi-naked body. "We'll have to stay close to one another or our temperature might still drop."

"So basically we'll be sleeping together. In a manner of speaking."

"It's protocol."

"You've done this before?" she asks.

"No. But it's not uncommon for agents in the field."

"Okay then."

He lays one blanket over the thin, serviceable mattress, to cover it. It doesn't look too dirty – the cabin itself is in quite a good state, if too spare. He uses the other two blankets as bed covers. He gets under them first, turning on his side and leaving room for Skye. 

It feels too out-of-this-world, being basically naked next to Coulson and his body warmth. She doesn't know if it's because she's so cold or because his body is just like that but Skye thinks that warmth is a bit too much. She moves a bit closer to him and she can feel that heat, that tempting blissful heat.

"This is kind of weird," she says, because she doesn't want the awkward silence to become the boss of them. "Is this weird?"

"It's okay," Coulson says. Coulson's voice is always just so... well, Skye is really glad he's here with her, if only for that tone of voice. "We are safe now. It's going to be all right."

And she wasn't talking about that but he must have picked up on the lingering fear in her voice, because she really hates this cold and she has been really, really afraid of dying out there in the snow. If Coulson hadn't practically dragged her the last mile or so she probably would have died.

Her gaze fixes on the back of his neck, on the almost-too-neat line of his haircut, on the line of his spine, as she watches him breathe. Before she knows what she is doing, or why, she is pressing the palms of both hands against his back, feeling the shape of his shoulders through the fabric of his t-shirt. He stiffens.

"Skye?"

"I'm cold, that's all," and to her surprise she manages to sound a lot more reasonable than she feels.

This is a bad idea, she thinks. This is not an idea _at all_. She has no particular goal here, she just wants to touch him. That in itself is a very bad idea. Skye feels like a person possessed – she knows she should stop moving her hands over his back, but she can't. She blames it on the warmth; the tip of her fingers hurt a lot from the freezing wind outside but they hurt a little less when she presses them against his body. His body. She hasn't thought about his body too much, except the couple of times she had hugged him (one was... not good, and the other one was really good but she barely remembers at all because then they were running for their lives), other than vaguely thinking he's obviously fit, not just because he's a trained SHIELD agent but because he's Coulson so that's a given.

She slips one hand under the hem of his t-shirt, then the other. Coulson shivers at the contact. She has made him shiver. Her hands still feel so cold, no wonder he shivers, but his skin feels so good against them. So much better than just feeling the shape and the heat of him through his clothes. The difference is astonishing. It's amazing. It's amazing for her to think she has never touched this part of him before.

She and Coulson have been close before (being close, that's like their whole raison d'etre, and Skye wonders if she's using that expression right) but never like this. She hasn't felt his naked skin under her hands like this. She just wants to bask in the strange feeling (not just warmth, something else, something heavier) and explore what's under her fingers.

What the hell are you doing? a voice inside her head asks. For reply Skye runs the tip of her thumb along Coulson's spine, feeling every knot of muscle and bone.

"Skye, what's...?" he doesn't finish the question, but it's pretty clear what he is asking.

He doesn't sound annoyed or disgusted at her. He sounds very confused. Well, that makes two of them.

"You're so warm. Why are you so warm?" and she feels herself following that warmth from his back to his sides and then his stomach, wrapping her arm around his middle.

And that's just crossing a line. Skye knows this. Coulson is probably thinking it right now.

She can't pretend this is completely innocent now. Well, she _can_ , and she tries to, but it's total bullshit.

Her right hand darts down, she needs to be stopped right now. 

The day has taken a turn for the weird and it's all her fault. Not that pursuing an unfriendly gifted through the snow was a picnic, but at least it was safe in a way, at least she knew what was happening there. And now... and it's all her fault. After all Coulson is not the one running his hands all over her with less than honest intentions. He had just wanted for them to warm up however they could. Protocol, he had said. To him this is just protocol.

Her fingernails rasp across his skin, below his stomach, feeling the thickening layer of hair there. The tips of her fingers are already sliding under the waistband of his boxers but before she can progress any further (before she can make the first unforgivable definitive move – they could pretend nothing has really happened right up until this very next moment) he grabs her wrist tightly, stopping her.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sounding a bit out of breath.

"I don't know," she admits.

If she could just move her hand a bit further, if she could just touch him. She doesn't know why this is so important to her all of the sudden. But she is almost about to beg him to let her touch him. Which is, fine, fine, Skye does not have a lot of pride but this is just absurd.

The pressure of his hand on her wrist loosens a bit and she is able to stretch her fingers, reaching under his boxers and finally (why the hell does she think _finally_?) touching flesh. Hot, burning flesh.

He's hard and she is so shocked by that, she cannot even think about it, Coulson is hard and, is that for her? Or it's just the situation and the closeness and her touch and any other body would have caused the same reaction? Skye wants to know, Skye needs to know. Is it her?

" _Skye_."

She has never heard him say her name quite like that.

She had never thought about this, not really, and now it's the only thing she can think about. How could she not see it before? It's all she can _feel_ right now. It took a fucking blizzard but now arousal spreads through her body, finally warming her, like it knew what to do, like it had been waiting inside her for a long, long time. She wants him. Maybe she had wanted him before this. She can't even think about it, it's just too big a revelation. She presses her face between his shoulder blades, her eyes tightly shut, drawing a long breath full of his scent.

She swirls her fingers around the tip of his cock.

Then he stops her, his hand around her wrist once more, but more forcefully. Is he going to pretend he didn't purposedly let her hand slip before? Maybe he is. 

"You shouldn't tease your boss like that, Skye." 

There's something kind of dark in his voice now. Something dark that makes her chest ache and goes straight between her legs.

"'I'm not teasing," she mutters against his t-shirt. She sounds like she is about to cry. Her lungs feel on fire.

"What did you say?"

"I'm not teasing," she repeats, punctuating every word. "Please don't make me say it."

She hasn't thought about something like this before, that much is true, but maybe she hasn't allowed herself to. Coulson is the most important thing in her life, has been from the beginning, and she tends to just _ruin things_ , like this, exactly like this, with exactly the same move. It doesn't seem strange to Skye that a part of her brain was willfully stopping her from thinking about the possibility of...

He pulls her hand away and for a moment Skye thinks that's it, this is the end of that, and she feels completely and utterly bereft. But then Coulson shifts, propping himself on his elbow and turning on his side, moving closer until they are face to face, awkwardly and completely face to face.

His hands move up to her face; her cheeks are so cold and his thumbs are welcome warmth as he caresses her gingerly, shyly. She didn't know Coulson could be shy, that's like against the laws of nature.

"Skye," he calls out, then repeats her name a couple of times in a whisper.

"What?" 

She doesn't understand at all. He runs his fingers across her forehead, pushing their faces so close together. She doesn't think he's going to kiss her but right now all she can see are his eyes, green under the bizarre storm light, all she can see is fear in them, and his lips slightly parted, his frown of concentration.

He looks like he is in profound pain.

"Skye, tell me... Am I an old fool?" he asks her.

There's a beat, because she is trying to form the words but they won't come.

"Neither," she finally says in a tiny, honest voice. Because god no, he's everything but. She might not know what she wants, exactly, right now, but she would never ever think of him like that.

Her face is so cold that it's a huge shock of heat when he starts kissing her.

It's so strange, stranger even than taking him in her hand. Stranger than anything, really. It's soft at first, but soon he is pushing his tongue between her teeth, and teasing the tip across the roof of her mouth and it's so good, so good that it actually takes her a bit to return the kiss, because a part of her just wants to stay here and be kissed by him, enjoy the absurdity of being _kissed by Coulson_ , but she guesses she should kiss him back, she wouldn't want him to think she doesn't want to.

She still wants to touch him, though, can't touch him enough. She slips her hand into his underwear once more, pushing it down and freeing him. Coulson sighs against her mouth and Skye realizes she is doing this blind, because they are still kissing, they haven't stopped kissing all this time.

She curls her hand around him gently, like she is afraid to hurt him. She moves her fingers with confidence – she's had plenty of experience in this. A cock is a cock is a cock. Except not really. This is Coulson's cock and the mere thought of it should blow her mind, if it weren't for the fact that she is so happy about this development. So she explores, fingers travelling the length of him, enjoying the throbbing sensation when she squeezes; it's been a while for her, she reflects, and Coulson is not as big as Miles but he is thicker, if she were into comparing, which she is not, because Coulson has integrity and courage and faith in her and he is all the things she had wished Miles could have been but wasn't. Skye hasn't thought about Miles in ages, in fact it has taken her having her hand around another man's cock to even remember her ex-boyfriend. What does that mean? Does Skye want Coulson to be her boyfriend now? It's a really weird question to make herself while she is jerking him off.

But she doesn't get to reflect on her expectations for the future much longer because she almost loses it when Coulson puts his hand around hers, guiding her movements slowly along his length. His thumb pressing on the groove of her knuckle. His hand around her hand around his cock. It's so ordinary and mundane and yet so hot. Definitely not something Skye has ever seen happen in any porno about people getting snowed in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

He's showing her how to touch him. _Jesus_ , Skye can't draw another breath. He knows what he wants and he is definitely not shy. She feels like she has been dating the wrong sort of man all along. And once again, does that mean she wants to date Coulson? How would that even work? She doesn't know, all she knows is that she doesn't want to stop touching him right now or at all and that's all the plans for the future that matter right now.

They move together, slow, slow, Coulson looking at her like he is not sure if she is on board with this. She is so on board.

After a while he lets her go, reaching his hands to her face. She can smell his arousal on his fingers, not in a gross way, more like everything around her is him now, it's Coulson, and she feels a bit suffocated by how much she likes the idea. This is different to any other time she's done this. Normally this is something you do _for_ a guy because you like him. But this is not just about getting Coulson off. This is about connection. It's scary.

Coulson holds her head between his hands, staring at her face with such intensity Skye's stomach drops a bit. He's like, stupidly intense. Do all men get this intense with age or...? No, Skye hopes it has something to do with her. That Coulson got so intense because he's doing this with her.

"Skye," he calls as he closes his eyes, her strokes falling into a nice rhythm now.

It's mesmerizing, noticing the little movements of his face as he concentrates on the way she is touching her. His lips part and are pressed together again. It's mesmerizing but she realizes she misses seeing his eyes. She realizes, right in this moment, she really likes Coulson's eyes.

"Open your eyes," she tells him. "I want to _see you_."

He lets out a pained noise, like that kind of intimacy is a bit too much to bear, but then he opens his eyes, unable to resist her command. He lets her see him, really _see him_. His eyes narrow and she swears even change color when she brushes her thumb across the tip of his cock.

He grabs her arms, digging his fingers into her skin desperatedly. She presses her legs together, dealing with her own set of problems. He's really close, she can feel it. She can _feel_ it. She wants so badly to be the one to bring him there. That is something she wants the knowledge of.

"Skye, I can't," he whimpers, words hot against her cheek.

"Yes, I want you to," she whispers, shameless.

She kisses him. She can't help it, suddenly gripped with this idea that she wants him to come while he feels her kiss. It only takes her a couple of long, hard strokes to get him exactly where she wants him. The most wonderful bizarre noise escapes him when it happens, something deep and somewhere between a growl and laughter.

Skye swallows the sound as she feels heat spilling between their bodies.

This part is not the greatest part of giving guys a handjob but Coulson is still kissing her while he trembles, kissing the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her neck, in a fevered state, a sort of drunken smile as he bites her jaw gently, and Skye doesn't mind the mess he's made all over her hand and stomach.

He breathes once, twice, a thousand times, against her neck, and each breath contains a part of her name, to be finished in the next breath. Skye could listen to that all night.

But then – 

"Fuck," he mutters and gets up from under the blanket.

There's a gust of freezing air and Skye suddenly remembers where they are. She sees him look around the cabin for something and it gets her a moment to understand what the hell he's doing. _Oh_. Most guys she's been with would have just gone straight to sleep, not thinking about their long-term comfort.

Coulson's shirt is still wet, which is perfect. He kneels besides her, cleaning up the mess between their bodies and Skye feels dumb with desire in that moment, the way he carefully wipes her stomach with his own clothes, something she had never ever imagined him doing, and yet it is so intensely _Coulson_.

She wants to tell him to come the fuck back to bed because now he is going to freeze to death and then what would have been the point of it all. She doesn't have to, though, he throws the shirt away and gets under the blankets quickly, shivering. Skye wants to run her hands up and down his arms to warm him but she doesn't know if it's allowed, if she's allowed to, now that the sex part is over.

Then she realizes she's the one shivering, wildly.

Coulson reaches one hand to her shoulder. "You're trembling."

She makes a pained face.

Coulson sits up on the matress. What now? she thinks, that's just more cold air he's letting under the blankets. But then he removes his t-shirt.

"Here," he says, taking her elbow in his hands and trying to slip the t-shirt over her head. "It's not like it's going to be much help but..."

Oh, okay, she doesn't know what this makes her feel so awkward but in a moment she is wearing Coulson's t-shirt, a bit too big for her and smelling of Coulson all over. She is actually blushing, and she is kicking herself for it. He pushes her gently against the matress.

They are face to face again, but leaving room between them. Like they don't want to risk touching anymore. The silence in here is suddenly terrifying – Skye had forgotten all about the blizzard with the moaning and the groaning and the loud-as-anything heartbeats between them. But now she notices the sharp blows against the window glass and she wonders if the cabin is strong enough to hold.

Then Coulson is moving again, his arm around her shoulder and running his hands up and down her back, making her forget all about the frightening noise of the storm. So warm.

Skye turns around and on her side, hoping it's enough of a hint that she wants him to hold her. She would say _cuddle_ but that's just ridiculous, this is Coulson, he probably doesn't cuddle. It's probably against some protocol. He gets the idea, though, he throws one arm around her waist and though they are not as close as before the world of made intrinsically better by that gesture of his. He feels so warm and Skye realizes she has much bigger problems than just the fact that she's just kind of had sex with her boss.

Then he puts his hand over her stomach and it's not – it's not exactly sexual, which is surprising considering what just went down, but more like he's comforting her, holding her, just really tenderly. And that's so nice, and so, so horrible, and Skye suddenly just wants more of this. More of him. He presses his whole body closer against her, chest still heaving against her back. Every nerve ending in her body is burning. Good news is she probably won't die of hypothermia. Bad news is she's pretty sure she's in love now. So more like _really_ bad news, then.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Not even close. But also, yes, she's okay. Better than that.

"Yeah," she replies, covering his hand with hers. "I'm warm."

 

+

 

"What the hell?" they hear Fitz's voice first.

Yeah, the rescue is a lot of fun. 

The day has broken, the storm ended ages ago, there's sun, and the whole team is gathered around to see them waking up still entwined together, Coulson's arm still casually slung over Skye's shoulder.

"Why are you in bed together?" Fitz demands. "And why the hell is Skye naked?"

Coulson extricates himself expertly from under Skye. She is not quite sure what it's happening, she's still a bit asleep, but now it's cold, it goes back to being cold, because he is no longer touching her. Coulson has propped himself on his hands and is looking up at the rest of the team in a calm way. How can he is beyond Skye's comprehension. She has the feeling everyone can read it on her face, like she somehow has a sign hanging over her head saying _Yeah, I jerked off my fifty-year-old boss last night and it was the best sex I've had in ages and now I think I'm in love with him_ in big neon letters.

"She's not naked," Coulson explains, all neutral, not looking at her. No, she thinks, I'm not naked, I'm wearing his clothes, which of course it's much worse and she wonders if anyone notices. "Our clothes got wet in the storm, we had to huddle for warmth. Would you have preferred us to die of hypothermia, Fitz? This is protocol."

She draws the blanket up to her chin. He looks and sounds so calm, so rational, like nothing happened last night. He sounds so convinced Skye is beginning to wonder if anything _did_ happen last night. She rests her head on her knees, feeling totally hopeless in a way she doesn't quite understand.

Bless Trip, though, who quickly fishes some spare clothes out of his backpack and gives them to Skye and Coulson. It feels a bit better, not being in her bra and panties and Coulson's cotton t-shirt anymore, even though she's still as cold.

"We don't have all day," May says, unfazed by the whole situation, hurrying them to get off their asses and get going.

 

+

 

This is ridiculous, she thinks.

Then again, she might be the ridiculous one.

All day. It's been the whole day and Coulson hasn't given any indication that he is thinking about what happened in the cabin, any indication he even remembers. It's so frustrating. Skye would have guessed he is the kind of guy who would insist on talking it over – too much, maybe. She was afraid he might insist of discussing it exahustively when all Skye wants to do is grab him and push him against a dark corner of the this plane and have a repeat of last night, with less impending threat of death by snowstorm this time.

They have done the defriefing from yesterday, and they have spent all afternoon prepping for a possible new mission and Coulson has looked at her and talked to her like he would any other given day. Not even awkward, not even detached – no, he's been acting just... _normal_. She shut her mouth, because she guessed he would want her to follow his lead in this.

So okay, if he wants to pretend it never happened, Skye can do that.

No, actually, if Coulson wants to pretend it never happened, sorry, but Skye _cannot_ do that.

That's how in the end she finds herself standing in front of his room, fist lifted to knock on his door.

She knows it's late but this has gone on long enough. If she leaves it until tomorrow she knows she will never have the nerve to confront him and that'll be the end of it. They'll just be a handjob in a blizzard and nothing more. She doesn't know what she wants, not exactly, but she doesn't want that.

So she knocks on his door.

He opens pretty quickly, which means he wasn't asleep, even though he is already down to his underwear and t-shirt, but his expression is awake and alert, which is good, good.

"Skye."

"Yes," like she is confirming that is in fact her name.

"What are you doing here?"

She breathes in and breathes out. She is doing this.

"You know, sir," she says, trying to sound relatively casual. "I think I might still be a bit cold."

She bites her lower lip, half expecting him to turn her away, out of his room and his life forever. But he doesn't. He keeps his face in check but he nods and gestures for her to come on in.

He doesn't turn on the lights or bids her sit in his chair or anything. He climbs straight back into his already-unmade bed.

For a moment she is just standing there, in the middle of his room, feeling unwanted. But then Coulson draws back the covers on his bed, leaving enough room for another person on the matress and he looks at Skye in a way that... in a way that makes it absolutely unnecessary for him to say a word to her.

Skye kicks off her shoes and practically jumps into Coulson's bed, literally and metaphorically.

"Thank god," he says once they are on their sides, face to face. He grabs her by the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss.

The kiss is a lot hungrier and more urgent than anything he'd done last night, like he had been restraining himself and now he can't anymore. His fingers dig into her nape and he bites her lower lip, drawing a series of moan-like noises from her.

Skye is stunned. And more than a little pissed off at him.

But she is also so, so relieved.

"All day... why didn't you say anything?" she asks, untangling herself from the kiss.

"I'm sorry," he says, very quickly. "I should have. That wasn't fair of me."

"Okay, yeah, but _why_?"

He runs his hand through his hair. For a moment he looks like he really needs some rest. 

"I didn't want you to feel pressured by the situation," he tells her. Skye narrows her eyes at him, yeah, good line. "I admit it, I wanted to know. I wanted to let you think about it, give you the space. Because maybe on reflection you would realize you've made a mistake in that cabin, and you wouldn't want to take it further, maybe you'd be repulsed by it..."

"Repulsed? You are kidding, right?"

He looks away for a moment. She must have been giving some very mistaken signals or he really is an old fool, because even when Skye hadn't thought about him in any sexual way she wouldn't have thought it was repulsive or anything. It's Coulson, she could never feel that way about him.

She grabs his shoulder and pushes her body against his. She's glad she's in going-to-bed clothes and she's not wearing a bra, so he is able to feel her heartbeat and how wrong he has been all day against his chest.

"You want me," she says, and it is a realization.

"That should have been made obvious last night."

No, no, that's not what she means. Last night could have been anything. Last night doesn't matter. It's everything surrounding it.

"No, I mean before. What you said last night... You wanted me before." He nods slowly. "When did you...?"

"You want to do this now?" Coulson asks, like they are about discuss tax returns and not their relationship. Oh, yeah, she just thought _that word_ , she's in real trouble now. So he wants her, it doesn't mean he'll agree to have _that word_ with her.

Skye shrugs. "I don't know. You just sound like you've been thinking about this for a while."

She hears him draw a breath. The bed is big but not big enough to have a serious discussion, she thinks. They are just too close and touching everywhere and Skye is thinking about how to get him to kiss her again.

"I have been thinking about this for a while," he admits in a flat tone.

"How long?"

"When you got shot," he says, then shakes his head. "Not when you got shot, _afterwards_. When I told you about the alien drug and I was... and you were okay with it, you were okay with what I had done to you. You said something, you told me we were alive. Remember that?"

"Yeah."

He grabs her arm, curling his fingers delicately around her wrist. For a moment she thinks he is going to kiss her hand, and he doesn't, but Skye thinks she might have liked that.

"I felt it then," he explains, his voice low and weird. "I felt alive. That didn't come easy to me. Because I hadn't, not for a long time."

"I'm sorry I didn't know how you felt about me," she tells him. Because she should have. 

"It was my job that you didn't know."

"Your job?"

"I'm your superior – even without SHIELD I'm supposed to guide you and support you, not..." he seems to be lost for words, his hand also coming up empty for a gesture.

"Not put your dick in my hand?" she helps out.

He frowns furiously. " _Skye_."

"Sorry. I thought we were having a grown up conversation using grown up words."

"You have to understand," he says, his breathing heavy now. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I wasn't planning on it. I didn't have... _designs_ on you."

"Designs? I would never think that."

"Skye, I'm fifty. I'm not in any condition of going around chasing young women."

"You haven't been chasing me," she points out. "After what happened yesterday I wish you had said something sooner but..."

"You do?"

She lifts one eyebrow. "Don't play insecure with me, sir. You are the most confident man I've ever known."

Coulson still looks unsure.

She grabs the collar of his t-shirt and gives him a quick kiss. Then another quick one. Then one that just goes on and on.

That is better. That is a lot better, actually. He relaxes under her mouth. She feels it, little by little, muscle by muscle, until he starts chasing the sensation, kissing her as much as she is kissing him, with an open mouth and patience, and his body moves under the sheets, striving to make some kind of contact.

He snakes one hand around her waist.

This is even weirder than yesterday night, which was somehow removed from reality (blizzard, cabin, possibility of hypothermia); this is Coulson's office and everything around them is so him, and everything smells of him, and they are in the Bus, in their everyday surroundings. This is not a game to pass the time while they are snowed in.

"So now what?" she asks, breaking the kiss.

"Now... what _what_?"

She kisses him a bit more. All this talk about feelings and stuff is very nice, it is, but Skye is more of a hands-on type of girl (she's resisting a joke here) and impulsive to boot. She stretches, touching her foot against his leg and reaching her arms between their bodies.

"So are we doing this?" she asks, impatient, running her hands, very purposedly, across his stomach.

Coulson lets out a sad sigh. "No, we're not."

"What?" Her voice sounds a bit more high-pitched and desperate than she intended. Even she didn't know she wanted to have sex with him right now so much. But it had seemed like that's what he wanted, too.

"Not here," Coulson says. "Not like this."

"Don't be such a... um, er... teaser."

"Skye."

"I don't get you."

"It's simple," he says, his eyes fixed on her, intense like last night, good intense. "I want to take you to dinner. Get us a room in a good hotel. Do _this_ properly." 

He sounds terribly mortified about having just said that. Well, no wonder, Skye thinks, fondly. What kind of person says that?

Skye moves back, taking a good look at this man. "Wow, that's so old-fashioned."

"Yes. I guess it is. Do you mind?"

He's pushing her hair behind her ear, like he wants to see her face better, or like he's pleading with her. Skye knows that if she pushes he'd probably give in – she is not completely oblivious, she knows Coulson has serious trouble saying "no" to her.

Well, Skye doesn't much care for doing things properly, to be honest. She'll just be as content climbing on top of him right now and having them fuck each other senseless. But this sounds important to Coulson so it's important to her. And she admits to being kind of courious about what his plans for them might be. They haven't talked about any future together but dinner and a hotel room sound a lot like he sees a future. And Skye concedes that maybe it might be better if they did this without other four people around them in the Bus, within earshot. Good call, boss, she thinks.

"Wait. If you didn't want to have sex tonight... why did you invite me to your bed?" He raises an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

He brushes his fingers across Skye's neck, letting out a small, vexed groan.

"You are trying to play it cool, aren't you?" she says.

"I wanted to be with you," he says simply.

He's either ridiculous or very wonderful. Skye knows what her choice is.

She twists her fingers into his black t-shirt, burying her face under his chin, embarrassed by her expression right now. Because if it's anything like she suspects it is maybe she shouldn't let him see it yet. She lets out a little whimpering sound. She kisses his collarbone through the fabric. Coulson tangles his hand in her hair, trying to make her look up, wanting to see her face. Skye complies, because she has problems saying "no" to him, too.

"I really don't mind. Waiting. If you want to do it _properly_ ," she teases him. "And as our recent trip to the heart of a blizzard proved... we can do other things."

"Oh yes we can do other things," Coulson agrees, pulling at her hair and kissing her hard.

His hands go to her waist and his mouth feels burning hot when he presses his lips under her jaw, trailing down. She feels like her whole body is waking up from frostbite and now every inch of her aches and itches and she loves it.

She has absolutely no idea how they are going to manage to wait and not ruin each other completely and wonderfully tonight. But that's okay, she's going to take it moment by moment. And this moment is a good moment, with Coulson leaving gentle kisses along the curve of neck, and his hand firm on the her hip. Firm and warm.

Warm. Yeah, she feels warm here.


End file.
